


The Lion in Winter

by BelleMorte79



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, F/M, Faceless Arya, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Implied Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Occasional fluff, Romance, Sansa-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-07-12 09:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 41,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleMorte79/pseuds/BelleMorte79
Summary: "Sansa Stark "the little dove" and Tyrion Lannister, "the demon monkey" reconnect after the "Great War."  Bran Stark continues to have strange visions gifted to him by the old gods.  Daenerys Targaryen struggles with her identity.  The "Last War" rages on.  Who will be left standing?Excerpt:"Sansa was lost in thought. A tendril of her auburn hair fell across her forehead as she stared intently at the piece of parchment in front of her. The winter winds howled outside the castle windows. The light of the days had gotten shorter. The smell of the dead still lingered in the air.She half whispered to herself "I am home." The "Great War" was over. Yes. But Sansa knew that Cersei would do anything to get her hands on her. Cersei blamed her for Joffrey's death. Truthfully, Sansa was glad he was dead, but she had nothing to do with it."





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post on AO3. I am obsessed with the Sansa/ Tyrion pairing. The story started out there, but now it has grown legs, somewhat like a spider, and is crawling towards other webs. I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is a woman grown, and now she is reflecting on the fall-out of the war.

* * *

Sansa was lost in thought. A tendril of her auburn hair fell across her forehead as she stared intently at the piece of parchment in front of her. The winter winds howled outside the castle windows. The light of the days had gotten shorter. The smell of the dead still lingered in the air.

  
She half whispered to herself "I am home." The "Great War" was over. Yes. But Sansa knew that Cersei would do anything to get her hands on her. Cersei blamed her for Joffrey's death. Truthfully, Sansa was glad he was dead, but she had nothing to do with it.

  
She was a "little bird" no more. Sansa was now the "Lady of Winterfell," and surrounded by friends, and family and people who loved her, but she could not rest. To add to her discomfort. there was the Dragon Queen. Jon had brought the Dragon Queen and her host North. He had given up his crown. He had ceded the power of the North once again. Her home was filled with strangers. A mere seven days had passed since war came to their very doors and the dead killed at will within the walls of this very castle. Sansa was left to pick up the pieces, while Jon got the glory. Sansa oversaw the efforts to rebuild the castle. She was to be left alone in these efforts. Jon and his Queen intended to march towards King's Landing. Jon had pledged soldiers to the Dragon Queen's cause to help her take back the Iron Throne as the last Targaryen heir.

  
Sansa held a raven scroll from Lord Arryn of the Vale, her cousin, tightly in her hands. She exhaled deeply before taking a sip of the goblet of wine near her bed. She could hear the scurrying footsteps of her housemaid approaching the door. Or maybe it was someone else.

  
Her house was filled with strangers, and former enemies. The Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister was in Winterfell. Him and Brienne had forged an understanding. He fought along side the soldiers of the North and the Wildlings in the Battle at Winterfell. There seemed to be an odd affection between the Lady Brienne and the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister. Brienne had been good to her-had protected her. Brienne deserved that happiness, she thought, however much she distrusted the Lannisters.  
Sansa looked out of the window and towards the hills outside the castle, blanketed in newly fallen snow. Only a few days prior the hills were covered with the still smoking funeral pyres of those who had fallen in battle. She looked at the battlements that had come tumbling down around them, and the men outside her window with wheelbarrows full of fallen stones. She was left to pick up the pieces, while Jon went South with his foreign queen.

  
Sansa had spent most of the battle in the crypts. The crypts were supposed to be "the safest place to be." Sansa could hear the echo of these words over and over during the battle preparations. The crypts had not been half so safe as expected. Many innocent women and children lost their lives in the crypts. The "Night King" raised the bodies of her long dead Stark ancestors, and Sansa was not a fighter. She remembered gripping the cool handle of the dragonglass blade that Arya had given her in her hands. She was prepared to die.

  
Her. and her former husband, Tyrion Lannister spent a considerable amount of time hiding in the crypts from the dead. There was a moment of warmth between them that made her feel a flutter in her stomach. She thought back to one moment where they locked eyes. She remembered the comfort she felt as he grasped her hand.

  
When they were in King's Landing, she had been forced to marry "the imp." She thought he was a monster. As she looked back now, he was the only man who had been kind to her, other than the Hound. She was so young, and completely alone. Joffrey was a monster. He had betrayed her. The Lannisters had destroyed her family. She would never trust a Lannister. She could never trust a Lannister, no matter how kind he may have been to her.


	2. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion rethinks his interaction with Sansa in the crypts.

_Maybe we should have stayed married._ He had spoken earnestly enough to Lady Sansa. He thought he saw something behind her eyes as he said it. But he wasn't sure what that something could be.

Tyrion sat alone in his chambers at Winterfell, a place he never imagined he would ever be again. He would be leaving soon with Daenerys Targaryen and her envoy to travel back to Dragonstone. Tyrion sat on a wooden bench, staring into the flames of the fireplace. The air was so cold inside the castle. A few days prior he imagined that he might die at Winterfell. The army of the dead marched on the castle at Winterfell. And Tyrion was made to feel useless. He ought to have been out there, fighting. He said as much, but Lady Sansa-she told him if he were out there he would die. Maybe she was right.

_Lady Sansa,_ Tyrion thought _,_ now she was a woman grown. When he wed her she was a sweet girl of fourteen. He swore that he would protect her. She seemed like a beautiful but frail exotic bird. But she was strong-she had to have been.

" _You want to fuck that Stark girl, but you don't want to admit it_ ," Tyrion remembered Bronn's words. She was a child. A tall child. A tall child with an astoundingly long and graceful neck. Sansa was beautiful. Anyone could see that. She was tall, and thin, and graceful, and smelled as sweet as jasmine. She had rich auburn hair and eyes as deep and blue as the sea. She was a tall, thin and graceful child, and he was a man-grown. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to keep her safe. But that was then, and this is now.

Now Sansa is a woman grown. Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell. Where once she was soft and sweet, she has grown hard, and cold. Her armour of courtesy has been replaced by something else, something as far removed as The Wall.

" _And now my watch begins_ ," Tyrion smiles as he pours another goblet of wine. He toasted Sansa with those words on their wedding night. He promised her that he would never share her bed, until she wanted him to. Her reply sliced as cleanly through his pride as the axe that had given him the scar that now marked his face.

" _What if I never want you to?_ " Sansa could never love him. Sansa would never love him. He was a monster. He was a foul, misshapen lump of a man, a shame to his father, "the imp." Not even fit to be Lord of Casterly Rock, after his brother Jaime joined the Kingsguard.

Sansa, who wore her courtesy like armor-Sansa, who grew to be woman with a spine of Valyrian steel-would never-

In the crypts, it seemed as if they might die together. What an irony. A beauty, and a beast forced together by circumstance. For a moment, in her fear, Tyrion saw the little bird he remembered. There was a softness in her face. Her eyes were wet, and vulnerable and he wanted to reach out to her and caress her face.

He did not. He took her gloved hand into his own and he kissed it. He wanted to give her something, some comfort, some respect, some devotion as they looked towards uncertainty and death. As he kissed her hand he saw her eyes survey his face, and linger on his mouth. He wanted to reach up and grab her face. He wanted to kiss her on the mouth.

He thought to himself. _I could be good to her._


	3. The Disgraced Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams are windows into the unconscious, and Sansa's dreams are troubling in more ways than one.

_"The Disgraced Daughter and the Demon Monkey, we're made for each other"_ Lord Tyrion laughed as he said this.

" _I promise you one thing my lady, I will never hurt you,"_ That was what Tyrion told her. He took her hand into his gently and led her down a silent stone corridor. Sansa followed Lord Tyrion. She felt the heat of his hand as it cupped hers firmly and gently. The flames of the candles lining the corridor danced casting strange shadows of them against the walls as they passed through the corridor. She ran her free hand along the wall to steady herself in the darkness. The walls felt warm to the touch. Mother had always talked about the hot springs beneath the castle. When she was a girl, Sansa imagined that there were dragons deep beneath the castle warming the waters that rushed through the castle walls.

" _I promise you one thing my lady, I will never hurt you_ ," the words echoed again in her head.

She was wearing an embroidered gown of rich gold and purple. _She was no longer in Winterfell._ She stood in her bedchambers in King's Landing. She looked towards the floor and saw that she was wearing her wedding gown. Swirls of purple and gold brocade draped the floor at her feet. Behind her she could sense the presence of Lord Tyrion.

"I'm dreaming," Sansa said aloud.

She became aware that Tyrion was no longer holding her hand. He was now standing behind her. She looked into his eyes, one an emerald green, the other icy and blue. His expression was puzzling. She glanced around the room. The walls had changed from the grey stone of Winterfell to the bronze accents and high vaulted ceilings of the Tower of the Hand in the Red Keep. Something felt familiar. But something felt _different._

Lord Tyrion had been a drunken mess on their wedding night. But now-but now he was not. He looked up at her.

"Sansa," he looked up at her face. There was something of hunger in his eyes. Through the narrow, paned windows Sansa saw the outlines of the Sept of Baelor. It towered over everything that surrounded it. She was a woman wed. Wasn't she? She would consummate this marriage.

Her wedding had been a nightmare. Joffrey had taken her father's place, and removed her maiden's cloak. She had waited foolishly for Lord Tyrion to wrap his cloak of protection around her, but he could not reach her shoulders. How humiliated he must have felt.

But she hesitated to kneel. He was a Lannister. The Lannisters had murdered her Lord father. She was a captive. She was being held prisoner. She would do anything to stay safe. Duty is stronger than love.

She thought back to her wedding. She felt him awkwardly tugging at her skirts.

Lord Tyrion stood next to a small table. On the table was an ornate silver platter, and a pitcher of fragrant Dornish wine, and two silver goblets. He poured himself a goblet of wine. She heard him pour a second cup. She began to dutifully undress for him.

On their wedding night, he had stopped her from undressing. She was too young. But now she was not young.

"This is a dream." Sansa repeated aloud.

"Is this the wedding you've always dreamed of, in your stories and songs?" Tyrion said.

Sansa stood with her back to him. She began to undress behind the screen that stood between them. When she got to her underdress, this time Lord Tyrion did not tell her to stop.

She felt her underdress fall the the floor. The flesh between her thighs felt prickly with gooseflesh. The cool air of the bedchamber made her skin feel alive and electric. She pulled back the coverlets, and climbed into the plump featherbed.

The bed had been sprinkled with rose petals,and she could smell the aroma of roses on the sheets. The sheets felt warm and inviting against her skin.

Her heart beat insistently, and she felt lightheaded.

There was a knock at the door.

"Lady Sansa," she heard the voice say. It was the voice of her Maester, Maester Wolkan.

She looked up at the ceiling.

"Yes. It was a dream," she thought to herself. _The disgraced daughter and the demon monkey._ Sansa felt an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, and an odd, achy feeling that she did not quite understand.

"Please send up my lady maid Maester Wolkan." When Sansa's feet touched the ground once again she felt the comfort of the stone floor warmed by the hot springs of Winterfell beneath the soles of her feet.


	4. "Looking The Truth In The Face"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa isn't the only one who can't sleep.

Ever since the end of the Great War, Tyrion has had trouble sleeping. His thoughts have been haunted by visions of skeletal men in decaying rags tearing at his flesh. He has awakened in the middle of the night, not knowing where he was, and searched the dark corners of his room for blue eyed fiends. Vivid nightmares have plagued him. When he wasn't dreaming of the dead, he dreamt of Lady Sansa. He also found himself thinking about her in the quiet of his room. At night as he lay in bed, with an oil lamp reading the writings of some long dead Maester, his thoughts always went to Sansa.

He wondered how Lady Sansa was doing. What was she feeling? He remembered how stoic she looked that night in the crypts. The front of her thick auburn hair was braided tightly and pulled back away from her face, and the back cascaded down and brushed lightly against her shoulders. Her face was still. But her eyes betrayed her. Her eyes were wet with fear, though she showed none of that in her features. She seemed to be holding on to her strength for the people of the North. She knew that they looked to her to know what to do and how to act.

Sansa Stark had been his wife. They had shared a bed. He remembered the cascade of her auburn hair against her pillow, and the soft murmuring sounds that she made in her sleep. She would not share her pain with him. She protected herself and her heart with all of the fortifications of the most heavily guarded castle in Westeros.

Tyrion slipped out of bed. He stepped down onto the stool that he kept by his bedside and climbed down to the floor. The floor felt warm against his feet. He walked over to the the table that faced his bed, and poured himself a goblet of water. His throat felt dry. He looked towards the plump chair in the corner of the bedchamber and saw that there was a pair of black, soft leather boots underneath the richly tufted velvet chair. Upon the chair, there lay a doublet and breeches. He clothed himself in the black velvet doublet, put on his Hand of the Queen pin and slipped into the pair of black breeches. He looked into the mirror on the table beside him, and saw that the nightmares and poor sleep were taking a toll on him, and his face. His eyes looked tired.

He walked down to the Great Hall to partake in breakfast he could hear a flurry of activity. Winterfell was still bustling with soldiers from the various armies that took part in the Great War. This meant that there was the possibility of an engaging conversation on the horizon. Tyrion smiled at the thought of this.

As he walked into the great hall his eyes searched for a familiar face. The hall stretched out before him bustling with conversation and occasional merriment. Groups of people sat clustered in their various factions. He smelled the aroma of freshly baked bread, pork sausages and frying bacon. The tables were well outfitted with platters of fresh bread, and pitchers of ale. The grey stone walls were draped with banners bearing the sigil of House Stark, the direwolf, on a field of white. The long, heavy wooden tables of the room were dotted here and there with oil lamps. As Tyrion ventured further into the hall, a servant passed by and almost knocked him over.

"Pardon me m'lord," she mumbled as she hurried towards the kitchens. Tyrion quickly grabbed a slice of bacon from the platter that she was holding. As his eyes searched the room, they came to rest on Lady Sansa.

Tyrion walked towards the table where she was sitting and found a spot on the bench right across from her. She was speaking with Ser Brienne, and Maester Wolkan. He seated himself on the bench and pulled a tankard towards him. He caught a wandering servants eye as they passed by with pitchers of ale.

"Girl," Tyrion turned towards the servant girl, "bring me a platter of bacon, brown bread and a cup of strong, dark ale," he winked.

"Yes, m'lord" she said, and walked towards the kitchens without further words.

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion began, "You look quite well this morning." This was an understatement of course. She looked more than well. She looked exquisite, as always. A rosy glow spread across her cheeks, accenting her high cheekbones. Her eyes were as blue as a spring sky, and her hair shone like burnished copper in the sunlight that streaked through the castle windows. She seemed to be in good spirits. Her eyes were smiling this morning.

She turned towards him. "You look very handsome today Lord Tyrion. You slept well, I hope?"

"Not well, I admit." Tyrion took a sip of ale. "I've had...odd dreams."

"My sleep has been...fitful," she pushed at a bit of potato on the edge of her plate, before looking up at him. "Might I have Maester Wolkan mix you some dreamwine?"

Maester Wolkan nodded his head.

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion began, "Thank you for your kindness. I may take you up on it."

Sansa rose from the bench. Tyrion jumped to his feet. "My Lady."

"My Lord," she nodded.

He watched her walk from the hall, with Ser Brienne and Maester Wolkan in tow. She smelled sweet as she passed him. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Her form was tall and graceful. The light seemed to follow her from the hall. Although she was as beautiful as any summer day, she was outfitted for winter. She was wearing a rich, grey fur cape around her shoulders, and underneath, a black dress with a laced bodice. The bodice, Tyrion noted, was reminiscent of armor.

As Tyrion watched her leave the hall, he thought back to the words that she spoke to him when they were down in the crypts. " _It's the most heroic thing we can do now, look the truth in the face."_

"What is the truth," Tyrion thought to himself as he sat down on the bench to break his fast. He could still smell the perfumed oil Sansa was wearing, and as he took a sip of ale, he imagined her face looking at him with wide eyes, and playing nervously with her food. He had not allowed himself to think of a woman, to entertain the idea of any woman, since Shae. But Tyrion could not stop imagining his lips working their way up and then down the astoundingly long neck of the Lady of Winterfell.


	5. One Flesh, One Heart, One Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is distracted.

Sansa stood on the balcony of the Winterfell courtyard. At her side, Bronze Yohn Royce stood council. She was still engaged in the restoration of Winterfell, especially the courtyard and the surrounding walls. Strong men from the Winter Town came to work on the stonework. She wondered if this was what her Lady Mother felt like, surveying the castle from this vantage point. Mother and father used to stand here and watch her brothers sparring in the courtyard. When Sansa was a girl she wanted nothing more to be as far away from this castle as she could get. Her head had been filled with stupid dreams of knights and chivalry. Visions of gallant heroes danced through her daydreams. She thought that she would marry a tall, strong, and handsome prince with golden hair. She would be the Lady of a great castle, and her children would be little lords and ladies. When she was betrothed to Joffrey, she thought her dreams had come true. She was an innocent fool.

As Sansa listened to Royce drone on about stonemasons, and quarries, and wall reinforcements, her thoughts were constantly flitting from place to place like butterflies in a field of flowers. She nodded in agreement though she scarcely heard the last thing that he said.

"Lord Royce," she began, "you must permit me to retire to my chambers. I feel...unwell."

"Of course, my lady," Lord Royce bowed. He grunted some orders to his men. Sansa scarcely heard him. She walked purposefully back to her bedchamber. One of her ladies maids accompanied her.

"Mora," Sansa turned towards her handmaid, "once I am settled, please send for Lord Tyrion. I wish to speak with him before he departs for Dragonstone."

"Yes m'lady," the young woman set out to find Lord Tyrion.

Sansa sat on a richly upholstered chair in front of her writing desk. She could hear the hurried steps of her guests as they walked through the halls. It was a comfort to have such a flurry of activity in the castle. Sansa smoothed her skirts. She began to remove the smooth kidskin gloves that she wore. She flexed her fingers, and ran her hand along the length of the table absentmindedly, as she glanced towards the doorway.

Tyrion approached her door, and stood in the doorway, "My Lady."

"Last time we spoke, you mentioned that you had not slept well," Sansa began, "has the dreamwine been any comfort?"

"Yes, my lady. We leave for Dragonstone in the very near future, and I fear I may need all of my strength." A slight smile formed at the corners of his mouth, as he walked towards her.

"How is your queen?" Sansa shifted slightly in her chair. _Your divided loyalties would become a problem,_ her own words echoed in her head.

Tyrion moved closer to her, pushing the heavy ironwood door behind him against the castle wall.

"Our queen," Tyrion corrected "She 's your queen too. _Our_ queen is eager to take our party south. You may soon enough have your castle to yourself again." Tyrion now stood to face her, with a slight smile.

Sansa looked into his face. His eyes were smiling. She studied him, and took in the curve of his smile. Although she was seated, he stood at eye level with her. As he moved closer to her, she felt a curious sensation. Her skin seemed to tingle with warmth. It was almost like she could feel his skin touch hers, though they were standing apart. For a moment her mind drifted back to the strange dreams she had been having. Her face felt flush. She studied him now, and her eyes caught the way that the sun seemed to bring out the streaks of white blonde in his honey colored curls.

"And you are devoted to your queen?" Sansa began, "She is...fortunate."

"I suppose one could say that I am fortunate as well. Have you given any thought to what you might do, once the war is won?"

"Yes. Some. I'm being counselled constantly about marriage."

"Marriage is...a prospect," he smiled.

"You would be an eligible match, if it were not for your... divided alliances." The words left her lips and seemed to hang in the air. She wasn't sure why she said it.

Tyrion reached out and took her hand. She felt her pulse quickening. He looked at her hands in his, brought them both to his mouth and lightly kissed them. Sansa was aware of the featherlight caress of his thumbs against her wrists as he lifted her hands to his lips. His lips felt warm and wet against the back of her wrist. She felt like pulling him closer. But she did not.

Her stomach felt tight. She felt warm, as if she wanted to take off the fur cloak that she was wearing. It felt like she was being weighed down by it. She searched his eyes.

"You needn't go with her. There will always be a place for you here." _If you want it_. But would he want it? The last few words she confined to her thoughts.

He moved closer to her. She imagined running her hands through his honey colored curls, and kissing him on the mouth, but a lady would never do such a thing. She looked into the distance behind him.

"Why must you go off to die? Are you so sure of your Queen?"

Tyrion closed the distance between them. He cupped her face in his hands. "Our queen," he said running his thumbs along the sides of her cheeks. He smelled of leather, and ale, and she felt like she was sinking into the chair beneath her. His face hovered close to hers, and she thought he might kiss her.

"Sansa. I can't abandon our queen, You might try to show a bit more restraint with her." She saw something like fear behind his eyes.

"Your dragon queen doesn't like the North. She thought to herself, "Am I in danger?" Yes, Sansa thought, _he is afraid of her_. _Why? Should I be?_

"You don't want to provoke her." His eyes seemed to be pleading with her. "I swore to protect you once."

"Yes, I remember our wedding ceremony. One flesh, one heart, one soul."

The softness in his eyes felt like a caress.

"Yes, my lady. Always."


	6. "The Cruelty of the Gods"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion ponders his relationship with whores, and evaluates his standing with his Queen.

Tyrion Lannister, the demon monkey, the shame of House Lannister, sat in his chambers at Winterfell. The castle felt warm and inviting to him. It had not always been this way. When the Starks feasted him the first time that he had ever set foot in the North, he felt like an invader. He had arrived with the King, Robert Baratheon. Robert brought the entire royal host to Winterfell when he offered Lord Eddard the honor of being the Hand of the King. When he was in Winterfell for the first time, he wanted nothing more than to get back to the South. Winterfell felt cold, and dreary and the people inhabiting it, especially Lord Eddard, were solemn and humorless. He spent the first few hours of his first day in the North at a brothel in the Winter Town. He spent a lot of his days and nights in brothels all over Westeros. This was who he was. This was who had been. He loved the company of whores. He paid them well. He knew that he was ugly. His own father had shown him as much. His father treated him with scorn and disdain, and shame. The disdain with which his father treated him was surpassed only by that of his own sister who hated him from the moment of his birth, and who wished he would die in his crib. Only his brother Jaime had ever been decent to him. He was a joke, a thing, a non-entity, an object worthy of derision and laughter and hatred. But he desperately wanted to be loved. So he endeavored to sharpen his wit, to sharpen his mind, to focus on internal betterment and he paid beautiful women to pretend that they loved him. Why had the gods treated him so cruelly?

He lived out his drunken days and nights in whorehouses, because he loved beauty. He loved beautiful women. He also knew, very keenly, that he was a monster. He knew that no beautiful woman would ever love him, if they were not being paid to.

Tyrion sat on a richly upholstered velvet chair, with a small stool for his feet. His fingers wrapped tightly around the silver goblet that he was holding. It was a beautifully engraved silver goblet adorned with intricately formed wolves biting each others tails. The flagon on the table was filled with wine. He refilled his cup.

Alone now, with nothing but his wine for company, Tyrion thought about Sansa Stark. She seemed to be asking him to stay at Winterfell. She seemed to be hinting that she was amenable to rekindling their marriage. Ever since he had gotten to Winterfell to make preparations for war, he had spent his idle moments quietly watching her. She was dedicated to her people. She was a leader. She was a little bird no more. She didn't need to marry. She had more power as a woman without a husband.

Tyrion heard the soft rhythm of footsteps approaching the outside of his chambers.

"Lord Tyrion," the familiar voice of Lord Varys, the master of whispers, was recognizable through the heavy ironwood door.

"Yes, come in." Tyrion responded.

"Her grace would like a word." His expression gave the impression of urgency.

Tyrion followed Lord Varys to the Queen's chambers. He entered the room to find her face even more solemn than the visage that Varys had presented to him at his door.

"Lord Tyrion," Daenarys turned towards him, her eyes wide and dark underneath the flickering of the candle light.

"The dragons-are not eating. They grow weak. They dislike the North. I need to depart for Dragonstone. We've lost most of our army. Rhaegal has torn his wings in battle. I cannot risk the dragons becoming any weaker. Cersei grows stronger by the day."

"The soldiers are in need of rest your grace. The dragons are injured. Might we trespass on the Starks hospitality a little longer?"

She looked as cold as the winter wind, "They will only get weaker."

Tyrion sighed. "Yes, your grace." Her mind is not easily moved, Tyrion thought. "We shall depart within the week."

"Very good," Daenarys flexed her hands. " I wish to be rid of the North. It's so dreary in this part of the country."

"Very good my lady." Tyrion began to walk towards the door.

"And what of Lady Sansa. She has been less than hospitable. It may be that we need stronger alliances in the North. Jon intends to ride South with us. You were close to Lady Sansa once, can I count on her loyalty?"

Tyrion stood still in the shadow of the door. "You can count on her loyalty to the crown."

"Which crown? Your sister holds the South."

"Lady Sansa is no friend to my sister, your grace."

"Can I count on your loyalty as well?"

"Of course my lady, you are meant to break the wheel." Tyrion stared up at Daenerys. "Is there anything else your grace?" _Sansa must be careful_ , he thought.

"I've had enough of betrayals. If you betray me…" she trailed off.

"You have my council, always."

Tyrion looked closely at her. He felt that Daenarys looked smaller in the shadows. Her eyes were wide. Her hands were constantly tugging at her dress, or her hair, or her jewelry. She did not return his gaze. _The North did not agree with her._

There was a cold in the room, that did not come from the air. All through the castle he felt warm, and safe and invited, but as he stepped into her chambers, the chill hit him so strongly that it almost took away his breath.

"Very well then. You are dismissed." She said coolly. From the shadows of her chamber, she called to the one called Grey Worm, and whispered something into his ear. Tyrion glanced back one last time, only to see them both staring intently at him as he turned and walked further into the corridor.

He walked the corridor silently watching the shadows of the flames as they danced against the walls. He heard soft footsteps behind him. Soon, a hand was on his shoulder-Lord Varys.

"Our queen seems vulnerable," Varys whispered. "You may want to tell your northern lady to be more careful. Our queen sees enemies around every corner." Varys looked pained in the flickering candlelight, his eyes red and tired. The North was not agreeing with him either. He looked like he'd aged a decade since they'd set foot in Winterfell.

"Once we get the dragons back to Dragonstone, and…" Tyrion trailed off

"I think our problems are bigger than Dragonstone. What of your sister?"

"My murderous sister wants all of our heads on pikes of course." Tyrion smiled. "What's new?"

"Please speak with Lady Sansa and secure our Northern alliance. Our queen is not in the gayest of spirits. She needs to be assured of her allies."

"Jon is the warden of the North. He is quite devoted to our queen."

"But is he the _real_ power here? Sansa Stark is Ned's trueborn daughter. Jon is a bastard. He won't be here to hold the north for our queen. He is travelling with us to the South to engage the Lannister army. Or have you forgotten?"

"I will speak with Lady Sansa." Tyrion walked silently back to his chambers.

_The Queen eats, and the Hand takes the shit._ Tyrion thought to himself. Truly, the gods are cruel.


	7. The Heart Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepless nights continue within the walls of Winterfell.

The ground was blanketed with snow. Fat snowflakes fell against Sansa's face, as she stood underneath the Heart Tree. The tree bark was white, the leaves dark red, they looked like outstretched hands painted with fire against the canvas of blue sky that surrounded the small weirwood forest that grew inside the castle walls. Sansa stared into the eyes of the face that had been carved deep into the tree, her eyes traced the lines of the face, slowly following the lines of the sap that had dried like blood against the white bark. The eyes watched her. Sansa thought that these were the same eyes that had watched the children of the forest in the eons before Winterfell was even built.

Sansa stood facing the weirwood tree. To her left, at her feet, she saw the great moss covered stone where her father often sat, polishing his Valyrian steel Great Sword, Ice. She remembered the still black waters of the lake in the center of the godswood and how they reflected the moonlight like a mirror. The tree was old, and it watched her. She stood before the face of the Gods, outfitted in a white fur cloak and a warm dress intricately constructed from thick white, fabric that hugged the curves of her body, and warmed her against the cold.

Lord Tyrion stood next to her. They faced the heart tree together. She heard him say her name. As she turned to face him, he reached out to hold her hands.

"I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days," he said. As she opened her own mouth to speak, she felt her face in horror. She had no mouth. His eyes look sad. He let go of her hands. She tried to cry out "I am his and he is mine. "From this day until the end of my days," but he just kept walking away. He walked back towards the castle as she stood alone in the snow.

She looked closely at the face carved into the heart tree. She realized that the carved face of the heart tree no longer had a mouth. The face that the tree wore looked like the face of her father. The heart tree began to cry fat, red tears. The sap ran down the tree and stained the snow near the roots of the tree. The way that the fat, red streams of sap ran down the tree reminded her of her father's head on a pike. She felt her anger rise remembering how Joffrey had made her look at it.

Behind her she heard a commotion. It was the Dragon queen. She landed her dragon inside the godswood. She was riding that terrible black beast that she always rode, her favorite dragon, the one that she called Drogon. She looked to be more dragon than woman. She appeared to be melting into his body. Dragon and woman became one creature made of fire. Drogon opened his mouth, and breathed a large gout of fire at Lord Tyrion, rendering him a pile of ashes. Sansa tried to push out a scream. She heard the muffled noises coming from her throat.

She walked towards the pile of ashes. She wanted to grab at it with her hands. Arya stepped in front of her.

"Where's the imp?" Arya said. But, Arya looked like a child. She looked the way that she had looked the day that they left Winterfell to travel to the south, to King's Landing.

But Arya, is a woman-a woman full grown. Sansa stepped backwards.

She tried to speak, but she could not. She tried to run but her legs felt as if they were made of stone. The cloak that she was wearing began to feel as if it was choking her. _Maybe the cloak is the reason that I cannot speak._ Sansa thought. She began to strip the cloak from her shoulders. Soon, she was wearing only the thick, white dress. She wanted nothing to touch her skin. She wanted to feel the cold winter air. She felt as if the dress was a great serpent choking the wind from her body.. She fought to remove it. As she struggled, she felt her eyes begin to open wider.

She awoke to the silence of the castle. The candles had burned out in her chambers. Her body was covered in sweat. She had kicked off all of her coverlets. She lay, breathless on the feather bed, staring up at the ceiling


	8. Someone Brave and Gentle and Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lady gives a gallant war hero her favor as he goes off to war again.

Sansa Stark lay in the still darkness of her room. The castle was silent. The candles that dotted the walls had gone out in the night. She listened to the sound of her own breath in the darkness, and strained to hear the soft padding of footsteps through the halls. She felt as if she weren't sure what was real. She was disoriented. She was not sure if it was night or morning. Her mind kept going back to the dream, and the tree that had her father's face. She missed her father. He always knew what was right. Her Lord Father had told her that one day he would make her a match with someone worthy of her, someone brave, and gentle and strong.

She was too stupid to see the truth of Joffrey, but her father had seen it. If she had only listened to her father, and left Kings Landing that day, maybe-just maybe- her father might still be alive. She pictured him looking down at her with his quiet grey eyes, and his hair pulled back in that way of his. She saw in her mind how he grew smaller, more tired and worried the longer that they stayed in King's Landing. She thought back to the day when he sat her down and told her " _I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong_." Sansa didn't know if she wanted to cry or laugh thinking about her ill fated betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon. Joffrey took great pleasure in causing her pain. But he had been the prince, the golden haired prince that she had always dreamed of since she was a girl, "a Lannister Lion." Sansa began to feel a chill, she was becoming more aware of her need for the covers that she had kicked and thrashed to the ground. Her eyes searched the darkness. The coverlets lay bunched up at the bottom of her featherbed. They had not fallen to the floor. She saw small streams of light beginning to creep underneath the door, and heard more footsteps begin to fill the silence.

_Maybe it is morning,_ she thought. She slipped her feet into two warm fur slippers. She slipped into a heavy grey robe lined with white fur. She walked towards her doorway, as she opened the door, she saw the shadow of someone familiar pass through the corridor.

"Lord Tyrion," she said.

He stopped where he stood and turned to face her. "My lady. Good morning." He seemed surprised to see her, and he looked as if he had not slept well. She sympathized.

"Would you like me to send for some food? You might break your fast with me. Who can say no to lemon cakes and tea?" She smiled.

"My lady..." He looked down as if there was suddenly something very interesting at his feet.

Sansa stepped aside, and he followed her into her chambers.

"All of your lamps seemed to have burned out."

"Yes. It's the strangest thing. I woke up in complete darkness." Sansa plopped down on her feather bed. She watched as Lord Tyrion pulled over one of the chairs that sat by her writing desk, and positioned it so that he could sit to face her.

"It's good that we've met this morning, I had been meaning to speak with you," he began. "Our queen would like me to assure her of the strength of our alliance. Your brother is going to the south to meet the Lannister army in battle. You will be the Wardeness of the North in his stead, can we be assured of your allegiance?"

"You can. I'm not so sure about your queen." Sansa sighed. "I want nothing more than to watch your wicked sister die a horrible death. It's what she deserves. I don't care who gives it to her."

Tyrion nodded, but Sansa couldn't help but see something else in his eyes. She thought it might be concern, for his sister.

"She wants you dead, you know that." she continued.

"Yes. Since my infancy in fact." Tyrion leaned against the right arm of the plump velvet chair. Sansa reached out her hand to him but did not touch him.

"Lord Tyrion," she began

"Just call me Tyrion, Sansa. We are beyond formalities," he smiled weakly at her.

"Tyrion. Do you believe that the Dragon queen will be a good ruler. You know more of it than I do. What was she like in Mereen? In Astapor? Is she fair? Is she just?"

"Our Queen, tries to be fair-Tries to be just. Some of her attempts are better than others. I believe she has a good heart. I believe that she needs good and fair counsel."

"That didn't help Joffrey." Sansa thought back to Tyrion's attempts to rein in the worst parts of Joffrey's nature.

"This is true," he said leaning back against the plump chair.

"How long do you intend to serve _our_ queen?" Sansa studied his eyes.

"Hand of the Queen is a lifetime job. Such as it is, Hands don't tend to live very long," he said with a slight smile.

"There are some things that it takes more than cleverness to get out of...what will you do if _our_ queen decides that she no longer values your council?"

"If history serves me correctly...," he smiled wistfully, "I will probably become a pile of ashes, so there won't be much time for me to contemplate it."

"I thought that you said that you wanted to assure my allegiance. You're not doing a very good job of it."

"Sometimes the truth is not comforting. A wise woman once told me that sometimes the bravest thing that we can do is to look the truth in the face. I wish I could remember who that was."

"You mock me. Be serious. You are a good man. You have always been kind to me. Be kind to yourself. Be careful of your queen."

"I'm doing my best," Tyrion sighed. "I think I might need that tea. I wouldn't say no to a lemon cake either."

Sansa rang a bell that sat on her bedside table. The servant that slept in the room across from hers peeked out her head.

"Yes m'lady"

" Lord Tyrion and I would like tea and lemon cakes. Also, can someone come by and light candles in my chamber. Many of them seem to have gone out in the night."

"Yes m'lady," she hurried off to do her bidding.

They were alone now. They sat in the darkness, Sansa listened to the sound of him breathing in the darkness. It seemed neither of them knew what else to say.

"I'm sorry to have troubled you, I know that you are doing your best to provide wise counsel to our queen."

Tyrion's eyes met hers.

"You are assured of an alliance with the North," she sighed heavily. "We can discuss the future of the North, once the war is won. Is this a fair compromise?"

"Yes my lady. Very fair. I will keep that second part to myself however, until the war is won."

"I trust your wisdom," Sansa smiled. "And now we shall have tea, and cakes and every good thing, like a proper Lord and Lady." Her eyes studied the face of the man before her. He was worried. She knew this. But she wished he would not be.

"You're going off to war," she began, "I shall give you a favor, to bring you luck."

He looked up at her. "If it please you, my lady."

"It pleases me. It pleases me very well." She rose from the feather bed and searched her room. She found a silk scarf lying on the table near the far wall. It was white, and covered in her needlework. She had finely embroidered it with a silvery thread to form the head of a direwolf. She stretched it out before him. "This is all my own work. It will bring you luck."

She brought the scarf to her lips, and kissed it, before handing it to him. "And now nothing ill should befall you as you go South."

He smiled. She watched him run his fingers along the needlework, his fingertips following the stitches. "This is very sweet my lady. Thank you."

The servant girl appeared with a tray of tea, and lemon cakes. She asked if they needed anything else. Sansa could think of nothing.

The morning light began to shine through the castle window, casting shadows across her chambers.

"Thank you for your kindness Lady Sansa."

"Call me Sansa, Tyrion," she smiled. "When are you to leave for Dragonstone, in earnest?"

"Within the week my lady." Sansa felt dull pain in her chest. _Within the week._ She would never see him again. She would never again hear his voice, or look into his eyes.

She hoped the he sensed no sadness in either her words or her countenance. "So soon."

He sighed. "The Dragons do not like the North my lady. Our queen is anxious to reclaim her ancestral home, and take King's Landing."

"Have you thought about leaving her service, after the war is won? Surely she will have her choice of wise counselors willing to give her advice, and teach her the ways of our land?"

"What would you have me do Sansa?"

"You seem quite at home here. You could be my counsel. You would be far from the political machinations and backbiting of the nest of vipers in King's Landing. Surely you cannot want to spend the rest of your life there?" She felt the color rising on her cheeks. She turned to look out the castle window.

"Sansa..," he sighed. "I don't know what to say."

"I've told you that I once thought you the cleverest man I have ever met. I would value your counsel."

He looked bemused, but he said no more.

There it was. She had given him an offer. He had not outright refused. She had not offered him all that she wanted to offer him-but she knew, deep in her heart, that it was enough. She thought back to the words that her father had spoken to her, when she was too young and stupid to listen. _I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong._

She felt like her Lord Father would approve of the man who sat before her. He was not beautiful, but he was brave. He was gentle, and he was strong. He could be good to her.


	9. The Only Thing Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion enjoy tea, and lemoncakes and every good thing. (Sans tea and lemoncakes)

Tyrion could still taste the sweetness of lemoncakes, and smell the perfumed oil that Sansa always wore in her hair. As he walked through the halls of Winterfell, he tightly gripped the silk scarf that Sansa had given to him. He ran his fingers idly across the intricate silver direwolf, feeling its smoothness. He remembered how sweetly she had brought the scarf to her lips and gently kissed it.

With eyes cast downwards, he walked into his chambers, welcoming the quiet and solitude. At one time, he wanted nothing more than to be out of the cold, and now he dreaded leaving the feelings of warmth that seemed to envelop him inside this castle. He wasn't sure if it was the place itself that had changed, or if it was he himself. In returning to Winterfell, he had been reunited with Sansa Stark. Sansa had grown into a formidable woman, and she had been welcoming to him. But soon that would be over. Soon he would be a thousand miles away from Sansa Stark.

When Sansa was at her most vulnerable, he longed to protect her. When they married, he thought that they had formed a sort of friendship. But the red wedding, killed any attempts at closeness in their marriage in its crib. He made attempts to reach out to Sansa, and to comfort her, but she pushed him away. She built a wall of ice around the most tender parts of herself, and he-he was on the outside of that wall.

During his trial, his sweet wife disappeared. For a while he even thought her dead. He imagined that he might never see her again. He consoled himself that they had only been married for convenience, and that she was probably glad to be rid of him. His father had forced them together to secure a Lannister dynasty, and she had surely felt like a hostage. Their marriage had never been consummated. He drank himself into a stupor on their wedding night to numb the pain of disappointment that he saw in her eyes, and he slept on a chaise lounge across from her bed the entire night. During their time together, he became quite fond of his wife, although she seemed to hate him. He could see the revulsion in her eyes as she looked at him. How could he blame her. His family had all but destroyed hers. Joffrey was a monster and had tortured her the entire time that she was in King's Landing, and when she thought she was finally free, she was wed to a monster.

As soon as Tyrion walked into his rooms he had closed the heavy ironwood door behind him. Now he strode towards the windows, and pulled the tapestries that accented his windows closed. He wanted to sit in darkness. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.

He could not figure out what Lady Sansa wanted from him now. Lady Sansa had invited him into her room when she was only half dressed. He wondered if half the castle would be talking about it before nightfall. Servants love to gossip. He wondered if his queen had spies watching him in the shadows, or if Varys had little birds flitting all over the castle watching his movements.

He sat down on the feather bed, still holding the scarf that Sansa had given him in both hands. His body was tired. He kicked off his slippers and laid down on the bed in earnest. The bed felt cold. He had been walking the castle for a long time when Sansa encountered him. He had just come from the library, and had spent most of the night reading scrolls. The Starks had an impressive library. He fingered the scarf again idly. It was so soft. He brought it up to his face, and inhaled the scent of it. It smelled like her. He lay on the bed still inhaling the scent of jasmine placing the scarf against his cheek. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

_Why would Sansa Stark invite him into her room, alone? What did she want_? He thought back to their wedding night. He was sure it was a nightmare for her. He didn't have the most pleasant memories of it either. He felt anger at his family. He felt like a prisoner. Yet, he had desperately wanted her. He remembered the hunger that arose inside him as he watched her undress. She was scared and shy, and a literal hostage, and he would not take advantage of her unspoilt beauty. He remembered the way that her hands had trembled as she fiddled with the laces and buttons on her gown, and how he watched her hungrily as the cloak, gown, and girdle that she wore slid to the floor in a puddle at her feet. He wanted her desperately. _Yes_. But he wanted her to want him back. He thought that they could make the best of their marriage. But she would never love him. He saw the fear in her eyes as she turned her back towards him. He knew that she feared that he might ravish and overtake her, but their wedding night was chaste and respectful. He was not the lecherous monster that everyone feared him to be.

He felt a sharp stab of pain anew as he remembered her words to him, and the look of her countenance when she told him that he would never share her bed.

_If only they had consummated their marriage-_ she would not have become a Bolton prisoner.

As he ran his fingers along the silk scarf once more he imagined that it was her skin. He wanted to feel the softness of her-feel the warmth. He wanted to taste the salt on her skin, and smell the fragrance of her hair. He felt something stir inside him.

_You are a monster. She will never love you._ He repeated this in his head. She was too good for him.

The castle was now bustling with activity. He knew that he couldn't stay in bed. He knew that he had to prepare himself for his trip South. A thousand miles lay between Winterfell and King's Landing, and it would be a journey of several weeks, on unpredictable roads.

There was a soft knock at his door.

Sansa's voice came through the door. "Tyrion."

_Yes_ , he thought. The servants will be talking. "Come in my lady."

Sansa pushed open the heavy door. She walked inside, and closed it behind her. She walked over to him, smoothing her skirts. Tyrion sat up, propping himself up on his elbows on the feather bed.

"Some might say that this is not a proper way to meet a lady. Pardon me." He started to sit upright.

Sansa sat on the bed next to him. She placed her hand on his.

"I would like to speak honestly with you," she said, her vivid blue eyes searching his face.

"Yes, my lady. I would ask nothing less of you."

"I feel that you might think badly of me," she blushed.

"I could never," he said softly.

"I want to confess something to you. I have not been completely honest with you. I do not want you to be my counselor," she sighed. "Though I do value your council."

He sat up now, completely straight.

Sansa continued, "I want to apologize for some of the things that I may have said to you-in my youth."

"You've always been a vision of courtesy my lady." He moved now to sit next to her. They sat side by side now on the featherbed.

She turned towards him incredulously, "Are you sure? I do keenly remember our wedding night. I remember how gentlemanly you were, and how you told me that you would never share my bed,unless I wanted you to. I remember saying something to the effect of 'what if I never want you to?'-"

"My lady. My pride may have been wounded, but you were a girl. I wouldn't dwell on it."

"I understand," Sansa smoothed her skirts with both hands. "Did you mean what you said to me, when you said that we should have stayed married?"

"My lady…" Tyrion looked at her face, and saw no sign of this being a joke.

"I've enjoyed you being here. I worry what may happen to you when you leave for the South. I have told you that you were the best of them, and I mean that. There is only one thing standing between us."

"What is that?"

"Your queen. Your queen is the only thing that stands between us right now."

He cupped her face in his hands. Her skin felt warm, and smooth, and as soft as the silk scarf that she had given him. He moved closer to her. He was struck with an overwhelming desire to kiss her. He cupped her face in both his hands, and ran both of his thumbs along the side of her face. He moved in close to caress the soft skin of her long, graceful neck with his lips, and taste the salt on her skin. His cheek brushed against hers and he inhaled the fragrance of her perfumed hair. As he kissed her along her neck, he heard a sharp intake of her breath. He began to run his hands up the center of her back and then down her shoulders. He was soon aware that she was making a soft little sound as he caressed her back to pull her closer to him. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin. He pulled back, "Sansa…"when he pulled away from her, her cheeks were flushed.

He watched as she slid back further onto his feather bed and began to unhook the bodice of her dress.


	10. As Brave as a Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filthy little perverts aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Sansa steadied herself against the wall. _Wolves are supposed to be brave._ The wall felt warm and alive to her touch as she walked along the corridor. She had always felt braver and stronger within the walls of Winterfell. She was not going to be a pawn anymore. Here, she had the chance to make a decision for herself.

The hallway seemed to stretch out before her endlessly. Each step that she took, the hallway seemed to extend itself. Her nerves threatened to get the best of her. The castle was full of activity now. Was it so wrong for her to decide who to give herself to? At one time she stupidly thought she might marry for love, or at least find love in her marriage. Life had taught her differently. As she knocked on the door to Lord Tyrion's room, she took a deep breath. The sound of his voice from the other side steadied her.

"Yes," she thought, "I can be brave." Everything inside her wanted to moderate these feelings, and push them deep inside herself. But she found her mind, and her body occupied with a nervous energy that she could not quiet.

As she walked into the room, she noticed the darkness. The tapestries had been pulled closed. Lord Tyrion was laying on the featherbed, propped up on his elbow. He seemed startled to see her. She could not blame him. She imagined that Septa Mordane would have been mortified to know that she had presented herself, an unmarried lady, to a man, alone in his rooms like some common whore. She stood in the center of his room, her head at an angle, breathing deeply and trying to portray a sense of confidence. She moved to get closer to him. As she did this he moved to get up, to greet her properly.

She wanted to clear her conscience. She also wanted to give some sort of signal that she was amenable to him. Throughout their conversation she found herself paying more attention to his mouth, than his words.

Once his lips began to touch her skin, she lost sight of decency. She felt as if she couldn't get enough of his hot mouth on her skin. He pulled away from her to study her face and as he said her name, his voice sounded different to her. _Was she doing the right thing?_ She was not sure. Sansa slid further onto the bed. Her fingers felt heavy and clumsy as she began to fiddle with the bodice of her dress. As the dress fell open, the cold chill of the air felt like a shock. She saw herself reflected in Tyrion's eyes as he studied her. She felt a heat radiating through her body as he moved to join her on the featherbed. Her breathing quickened as she felt the bed sink beneath his weight, and he moved closer to her. His eyes seemed to be memorizing her face, caressing her lips, and then they came to rest on her breasts, now exposed, and chilled by the castle air. Her taut pink nipples stood erect from the chill. She felt as if she were holding her breath, waiting for his touch, and was not sure how much time passed between his moving closer to her, and the warmth of his hands caressing and holding her breasts as if they were some sort of ripe exotic fruit. His hands and fingers were strong and hard, and she wanted to stretch her legs open and wrap them around him. She did not. She felt soft and pliant beneath his fingertips and she began to adjust her body on the featherbed so that he could greedily kiss every inch of her exposed flesh. A throbbing aching feeling radiated from her hips. She wanted to pull him as close to her as possible, she ached to be one person.

He kissed her mouth, and he tasted like tea, and lemoncakes, and salt, and hunger, and she felt as if she'd drank too much wine. She ran her fingers through his golden curls, and embraced him.

He pulled away from her, studying her again.

"Sansa," he was laying close to her now, his want of her obvious as he pressed his body against hers. He took a deep breath, "You are very lovely." He traced his hand down her stomach. "There is still time to turn back now, sweetling."

Sansa laughed. "I have come to you willingly. Are you having second thoughts my lord?" He reached out to hold one of her hands.

"For your honor, I shall ask your brother for permission to renew the pursuit of your affections."

"Renew?" Sansa laughed " She covered herself with some of the furs that were strewn about the bed. "Had you ever pursued them?"

"I will speak with your brother. The harder part may be-speaking with our Queen."

"You are a proud lion. This should be no trouble." Sansa's smile was playful. She began to put on her bodice. "Use some of your pride to assist me," she smirked. "Your reputation as a filthy little pervert disappoints me my lord."

"Keep that between us," he smiled, "I do have a reputation to uphold."


	11. Hard Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing the truth is hard. But in order to get what you want, sometimes you have to do the hard thing.

Tyrion dressed himself in a green doublet adorned with his Hand of the Queen pin, and pulled on a pair black breeches. It had been two days since Sansa had visited him in his bedchamber, and he had yet to speak with Jon. He was also becoming keenly aware that he was likely being watched either by the unsullied or by Varys' spies. Daenerys was growing colder and more impatient by the day. Truthfully he would be glad to leave her service. It was his hope that Jon might intercede on his behalf and speak with her about Lady Sansa.

Tyrion took a look in the mirror, and straightened his pin, before walking through the castle and out towards the Winterfell courtyards. Preparations for travel were underway. The dragons were still not eating very much. Rhaegal's wing was partially healed. The Northerners that had taken refuge in Winterfell had begun to trickle away back into their own holdfasts. The workers that come in from the WinterTown continued to work on repairing the castle walls. Lady Sansa was quite occupied with the supervision of this, and Jon was busy readying the Northern soldiers to travel South. The sound of metal on metal was a constant throughout daylight, as the Knights worked to steady up the Northern troops. On this day the sun was out, and winter snow that had fallen, had begun to thaw. As Tyrion walked into the center of the courtyard, he saw Jon, speaking with a group of soldiers in armor. As quickly as his legs could carry him, Tyrion strode over to Jon, to catch his attention before he became otherwise occupied.

"Jon," Tyrion said as he caught up to him. "May I have a word?"

"I have something to ask of you."

"It is about Lady Sansa."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Lady Sansa?"

Tyrion ran a distracted hand through his hair. "I thought we might speak in private."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "We can retire to the meeting hall?"

Tyrion smiled weakly, "Yes. The meeting hall also has wine- a bit of liquid courage."

Tyrion walked through the courtyard. The castle was still bustling with activity. The air around him was filled with the clamor of metal on metal, and the voices of warriors training for battle. His time in the North was drawing to a close. If his queen had her way, soon they would leave for Dragonstone, and from there prepare to lay siege to King's Landing. The dragons were close to regaining much of the strength in their wings. In the distance he saw Greyworm training some of the remaining unsullied. He looked at the castle that lay ahead of him. He felt a sense of reverence in this castle. Winterfell was old. Brandon the Builder had set the first stone and the castle had risen up from the granite over the course of centuries and seen many changes, from the age of the First Men to the conquest of the Andals. The gray walls seemed to be watching him, as he made his way into the ancient stronghold, and walked purposefully through the corridors to the meeting room. The meeting room was warm and inviting. There was a large fireplace set at its center that seemed to warm the whole room. There were tables lined up along the side of the walls with pitchers of wine set out for the guests. Tyrion walked over to a table and poured himself a goblet of wine. He took a seat on the bench in the center of the meeting room, close to the fire. As he took a sip of his wine, he saw Jon approach him. Jon sat next to him on the bench.

Tyrion looked directly at Jon. Taking a sip of wine, he began, " Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it. I am like most men," he sighed.

Jon regarded him curiously. "You wanted to speak to me of my sister, Lady Sansa."

"We've spoken previously of your sister and I and our...sham marriage. My time here at Winterfell has allowed me to become reacquainted with your sister." Tyrion took a large sip of wine, before inhaling deeply."

Jon merely looked amused, but he said nothing. The silence allowed the anxiety to coil like a snake within Tyrion's gut. "I would like to ask your permission to…renew our vows."

Jon nearly spit out his wine. "Is this what she wants?"

"As far as I can tell. You might speak with her yourself." Tyrion smiled weakly.

"I'm happy for you. I must say that I am…"

Tyrion finished "Shocked...dismayed… yes. All of the above. This does however create a...complication with our Queen."

"That may be an understatement. She is not of the best mind as of late. We are preparing to retake her throne. She lost a lot of men in the battle for Winterfell. She's impatient, and becoming frustrated that we are not yet on the move."

"Would you intercede on our behalf?" Tyrion could see that Jon seemed uneasy.

"I can try."

"I would be grateful."

"Are you planning to have the ceremony in the Godswood?"

"A septon performed our previous ceremony. Your sister, if I remember correctly, keeps faith with the Faith of the Seven and the Old Gods."

Jon looked deep into the flames. "I will speak with our Queen. Are you planning to step down as Hand of the Queen?"

"Your sister...would prefer never to return to King's Landing. So that would make my position complicated." Tyrion looked distractedly into the dancing flames. How he longed to be a red priest at this moment. If only he could read an answer in the flames maybe he would know what to do next. He wished that they would show him something, but they gave him no answers, only warmth.


	12. The Pack Survives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the cold winds howl, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. (Wolves of a...feather...howl together.)

Sansa walked through the great hall at Winterfell. It had been three days since she visited Lord Tyrion in his chambers. This evening, she was about to have supper in the hall with her sister, Arya, and Ser Brienne. Arya was exuberantly enjoying her supper. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and the back hung loose much the way that their Lord Father used to style his hair. The noise of the great hall gave Sansa comfort. It was a symphony of clash and murmur. The clang of pewter plates and cups was accented by the murmur of a hundred or more private conversations tucked away in darkened corners. Every now and then someone would let out a large peal of laughter, breaking through the murmurs. The hall smelled of freshly baked bread and rich simmering stews, and the fire in the hearth gave off a soothing orange glow. In the center of the hall, near the hearth, she saw her sister, Arya, and Ser Brienne sitting, and enjoying bowls of stew. She walked over to their table and seated herself near them. Arya was hungrily devouring the rich, brown stew and sopping up the liquid with a hunk of fresh bread. She took her attention away from the bread long enough to smile at Sansa.

"Very ladylike," Sansa said smiling.

"It's been a long day training. I'm starving," Arya said, putting down the metal bowl of stew with a hard clang.

"Why are you still training?"

"I've got unfinished business." Arya didn't say more.

Ser Brienne raised her eyebrows, "My lady, I'm sworn to protect you and your sister…"

Arya interrupted "...and you are. You're training me…so that I can protect myself." She smiled mischievously before attempting to pick a shiny piece of gristle from her teeth.

"Are you riding South," Sansa was surprised at the idea of this. She had thought her sister was glad to be home.

"I have unfinished business in King's Landing." Arya smirked.

"Well, I've been wanting to talk to you," Sansa hesitated, "...about my wedding."

Arya's eyes went wide. " _ Bloody hell _ ."

"You look as if you've swallowed a sheep," Sansa laughed.

"What's this about a wedding?"

"Arya..." Sansa lowered her head. Her face felt hot.

Arya turned her full attention towards Sansa now, "Who are you marrying? Haven't you had enough of marriage?"

"Someone has got to think of the future of our house," she began, "you've already told me that you are not going to be a great lady of a great house...and Bran..."

Ser Brienne was also now paying attention to their conversation. "My lady," she began, "do you mean to leave the North?"

"No. The North is my home. I mean to stay here."

Arya touched her sister on the shoulder, "Tell me about your handsome prince then, is he as dreamy as Joffrey?"

"Arya. Be serious," Sansa said.

"The last time you got married, you fed your husband to dogs."

Sansa looked down at her fingers. " _ Arya _ ." She smiled. "Please."

"Should I be worried about this one?"

"Do you want to know who I aim to marry or not?"

"Get on with it then. You're the one making a mummers farce of it. Tell or don't." Arya said finally.

Sansa felt the blood rising in her face, as she said "Tyrion Lannister…"

Ser Brienne stared at them both. Arya's mouth hung slightly open for a moment before she exclaimed "The imp!"

"Arya please. That's not very nice." Sansa blushed. She felt embarrassed hearing her sister speak of Tyrion this way.

"You're marrying the imp?" she said again, incredulously.

"May the Gods bless your union, Lady Sansa," Brienne said, though her eyes were still as wide as dinner plates, she smiled earnestly.

"We would like to have the ceremony in the Godswood," Sansa finished.

Arya looked at her then, "You're serious."

Sansa was starving now. She got the attention of a servant girl, and asked for a bowl of the rich brown stewed boar that Arya had just consumed so greedily. Arya was still staring at her.

"It will be just you, myself, Tyrion, Jon, and Ser Brienne, and possibly Jaime Lannister."

"What about the dragon queen? Will you be expected to move to King's Landing?"

"I would rather die than ever go back there for any long period of time," Sansa looked into her sister's eyes, "I mean to stay here, in Winterfell."

"I see. Well, where is your Lord Imp tonight?" Arya said, arching her eyebrows.

Sansa's eyes narrowed into slits as she said, "If you must know, he is with his Queen. They are preparing to leave for Dragonstone."

"So...she doesn't know." Arya laughed then, a full bellied laugh, her head thrown back. A few heads turned to look at her. She then said quietly so that only her sister could hear, " _ Maybe I'm going to kill the wrong queen _ ."


	13. A Lannister Always Pays His Debts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion makes interesting decisions. Daenerys considers a proposition from an advisor.

Part I: Tyrion

Tyrion Lannister was as good as his word. It was one thing about him that remained constant. Many things about him had changed in the intervening years since he'd left King's Landing and become an exile across the narrow sea. He had run away from himself for many years, and now he had found himself back in Westeros, the land of his birth, and following a foreign Queen. The day that he set sail for Essos, he didn't much care if he lived or died. He had been betrayed by his father, his sister, and the woman he loved. Even thinking about the sting of these betrayals now, Tyrion felt the bitterness crawl up the back of his throat like bile. _Shae._ Shae, who called him her "lion of Lannister," whom he had believed actually loved him, had accused him of murder. She had lain with his own father in the bed that the two of them had previously shared with each other. What a fool he had been. To find the woman that he loved sleeping in his father's bed, he was overcome with anger. A bitter laugh escaped his lips even now. His anger was still palpable. His father would have told him, that's what he got for laying with whores. Tyrion thought bitterly, yes, " _Father knows best_. _I got what I deserved_."

Tyrion, despite all thoughts to the contrary, had always been loyal to his family. He had done all that he could to be an honor to his house, _deformed monster that he was_ . He had saved the city during the Battle of the Blackwater, only to end up with a nasty gash on his face as a reward. His father thought that by giving him Sansa Stark, a debt would be paid. _A Lannister always pays his debts,_ Tyrion thought to himself. Now, Sansa was giving herself to him willingly. Did Starks also pay their debts? What did she want with him? _Did Sansa love him? Did Sansa need him? Did Sansa want him?_ He needed to speak with her. He needed to see her. Every day since she had visited him in his room, he had felt a weight weighing him down. He had asked Jon to intercede on their behalf, but Daenerys was not easily moved. She cared for one thing and one thing only, retaking the iron throne.

His head ached and his body longed for sleep. The day had been filled with battle preparations. Earlier in the day the war council met to discuss final details of the departure. He was to leave for Dragonstone by ship, while Greyworm was to lead the infantry and the Dothraki, and travel by horse. Her grace and Jon would travel by air, riding on Rhaegal and Drogon respectively. Rhaegal's wings were almost healed completely, though he was still not eating much. Daenerys had given no indication that she would consent to let Tyrion leave her service, and so Tyrion was avoiding Sansa as if she were infected with greyscale.

Tonight, tired from the worries of the day, Tyrion changed into his bedclothes and climbed into bed. He squirmed to the exact middle of his mattress and covered himself up to the neck in a layer of furs. He felt the need to be swaddled like a baby. He didn't even have the inclination to read. He just let his thoughts wander, and he stared at the ceiling, following spiderwebs, and errant cracks in the walls, and willing himself to fall asleep. It was not working. All of his thoughts went back to Sansa. He would have to speak with her. Soon enough, his tired body gave up, and he drifted off to sleep.

Part II: Daenerys

The snows were beginning to melt. The air seemed warmer. It was not as warm as a false spring, but the encroaching winter became milder with each day. Daenerys Targaryen sat in the common room at Winterfell. The long wooden tables were frequently less populated than they had been during the preparation for the Long Night. More and more, the people of the north had begun to drift back to their own homes, to try to rebuild what they might have lost. Daenerys felt out of place in the North. When she arrived, she felt, acutely, the eyes of all the Northerners appraising her silently, and finding her wanting. She felt their mistrust, and their anger. She had been unprepared for what it would be like to be a Targaryen in the North. The blame for the Northerners mistrust lay with her father. Her father, the "Mad King" Aerys II, had executed Rickard and Brandon Stark when they went south to fight for the honor of the lady Lyanna. This was ages ago, when the Lady Lyanna Stark was "kidnapped" by her brother Rhaegar, and as they always say "the North remembers." She had only come here to the North because she loved Jon Snow. He alone had convinced her through the sheer strength of his convictions to come here, and she had lost a lot in the process. She lost a large chunk of her Dothraki fighters, and her Unsullied. She lost her dragon, Viserion, she lost her advisor Jorah Mormont, and now, the North threatened to take something else from her, her Hand of the Queen, Tyrion Lannister. Daenerys sat by the hearth, nursing a cup of mulled wine. She was tired of losing. Her violet eyes watched the flames in the hearth dance. She was waiting for Jon Snow, but he was still training the soldiers in the front courtyard. Jon had been trying, unsuccessfully, to convince her to let Tyrion Lannister leave her service. His sister, Sansa, had been married to Lord Tyrion once, and they hoped to rekindle their marriage. Dany was not completely heartless. Of course she was glad that he may have found some love in this dark place. But the timing was very inconvenient. She had a war to fight. She took another large sip of wine as she warmed herself by the hearth, and continued to look towards the doorway, waiting for Jon. It was unfair of him to ask this of her. Why couldn't Tyrion ask her himself? As she thought this, she caught sight of Tyrion. He was walking towards her. He made his way to her table, and stood before her.

"Your grace," he bowed.

"My lord," she nodded. "Please sit."

"Thank you."

"I've come to ask you something."

"Yes. I see." The bench trembled with his nervous energy, _was she that intimidating_? She wondered.

"Have you," he took a breath, "given any consideration to my marriage to Sansa Stark?"

"I have. But I have not yet made a decision. I have much to consider. I take it that you are intending to leave my service?"

"Your grace, Sansa has very unpleasant memories of our time in King's Landing, and as my work would have me there a majority of the time...it would be prudent for me to stay here in the North."

"I do give you permission to marry." She said, "But I have not given you permission to leave my service," Daenerys took another sip of wine.

"I see." Tyrion sighed. "I will speak with Lady Sansa."

"Yes. Do." Daenerys, turned her attention back to the fire. " _Sansa wants the North to be an independent kingdom. I wonder what she wants more, this marriage, or Northern Independence." Daenerys thought, turning her attention back to the flames._ In this light,she thought, the flames looked like dragons dancing.


	14. The Ice Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart. Intentions matter. Sansa has a chink in her armor. Tyrion finds himself at a loss for words.

The snow was beginning to melt, and an angry sky loomed overhead. Grey clouds seemed to be making the crested shapes of direwolves heralding the looming storm that was creeping across the horizon. In the courtyard, the clamor of metal on metal rang out as the soldiers practiced their swordplay and Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, stood on the balcony overlooking them with a wary eye. Soon, many of these soldiers would be leaving to march South and meet the Lannister armies in battle. Some of these men might never return home. Her father and brother had both gone South, never to return home. The South was not kind to her family. It had not been kind to her. At one time, she had wanted nothing more than to be a part of courtly life, and the glamourous world of knights, tournaments, and chivalry. She was a stupid little girl, who never learned. But finally she had learned.  _ Yes.  _ The world had taught her hard lessons. The world was not a song. Life was not a story. Sansa looked out across the courtyard, in the distance, the stonemasons continued to work on repairing the outer castle wall. Soon, they too would return to their holdfasts. Sansa began to descend the wooden stairs, that took her into the courtyard. She had put herself on the line, and for the past few days, Lord Tyrion had been avoiding her. She supposed that she could have sought him out, but she didn't dare risk further mortification.

Sansa was dressed in the armor of a lady. She had on a black leather bodice, and long, black skirts. She was bundled up in a long, black coat trimmed with rabbit fur. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back into two braids that met at the center of her head and the back of her hair flowed loosely about her shoulders. Her cheeks felt red and raw from the chill in the air as she made her way inside the heavy ironwood doors and through the corridors of Winterfell. The castle was still a hub of activity, but many of the Northern Lords and their soldiers had returned home, especially those that did not intend to ride South with Daenerys Targaryen. There was a lot of grumbling among the Northern lords about fighting the dragon queen's war, and many felt like she had somehow bewitched Jon. Sansa sometimes wondered the same. There was something about his queen that she did not like. Maybe she was prejudiced against Targaryens, for what they had done to her family? Or maybe it was the way that Jon seemed to lose himself and follow her like a little puppy.

Sansa walked the halls lost in thought, and she wasn't really paying attention to where she was walking. She was letting her feet carry her forward, and her mind carry her elsewhere. As she turned a corner, and approached her bedchambers, she heard a familiar voice.

"Lady Sansa!" As she turned to look behind her, she saw Tyrion Lannister walking towards her. He didn't exactly look happy. He had been avoiding her for several days, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to speak with him, at this exact moment. She felt as if, quite possibly, she had shown him more affection than she should have, and that she had possibly made a grave mistake. He was probably coming to tell her that he was going to Dragonstone, and that they would always remain the best of friends.

She looked down at him, "Yes, my lord?"

"May I have a word with you?"

His eyes looked tired. She wondered if he had been sleeping. "Yes," she said, "of course."

Sansa walked into her bedchamber. Tyrion followed close behind her. He seemed to be walking so close to her that she could feel his presence behind her. She motioned for him to sit.

"Lady Sansa," he began, "I have spoken with our Queen. She has given us permission to marry."

Sansa could feel him about to say something else less promising.

"But…" he began, "she has not given me permission to leave her service. I thought that she might come around, but she is unmoved. I know that you don't want to return to King's Landing."

"I do not," she sighed. "I suppose I could stay here in Winterfell and you could go to King's Landing, alone. My Lady mother and my Lord father had attempted this arrangement. As you know, that did not turn out well."

"My lady, I have enjoyed my time here, but you do not have to be tied to...someone like me. There are eligible Lords who would be exceedingly lucky to have you."

"So...this is what you think of me? You would like to pawn me off on some Lord or other? Your queen has won. Is that all?"

"Sansa…"

"Is that all? I am tired. I would like to retire now. Would you permit me to take my leave of this conversation. Choose to do what you wish."  _ This is what I get for letting down my guard, _ she thought.

"Sansa, please…"

"What? Please what? What is it that you want me to say or do? You are leaving. You are going to Dragonstone. You are going to King's Landing. You have chosen your Queen."

"Sansa...I…," his voice seemed to falter. "I care about you a great deal. What do you want me to do?"

"Do you want to be here? Or do you want to go to war? I foolishly thought that you might have feelings for me."

"You are not foolish. Sansa…" He was leaning forward now, with both palms against his face.

Sansa sat down now, on her featherbed. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to do. She had been brave, and now she had disgraced herself.

"Please keep anything that has happened between us, between us. I understand that you have commitments. Your allegiances, have become a problem, much as I have feared. Is there anything else that you need to say to me? I'm quite tired."

Tyrion rose from the chair, and took his leave. He glanced behind him, as he closed the door, but Sansa avoided his eyes. Once she was alone, she began to strip off her armor. First, she discarded her gloves. Then she discarded her cloak. She removed her leather bodice, and her overskirts. She put on a linen sleeping tunic and climbed into bed. As she lay alone in the darkness, finally, she let herself cry softly into her pillow.


	15. I Will Never Hurt You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speaking honestly---honesty is the best policy.

Tyrion could not stand to remember the look on Sansa's face as she told him to leave her bedchamber. For a moment, he had thought they were becoming close. But he ruined it.  _ Why, oh why did he have to mention other suitors to her? _ He could see her begin to build walls around her emotions. He could feel her closing herself off from him. It felt like the early days of their marriage all over again. Sansa protected her heart. She protected herself fiercely. Tyrion walked along the corridor silently, replaying his interaction with Sansa over and over again. She didn't give him a chance to explain himself. " _ It was hopeless _ ," he thought. As he walked he could not shake from his memory the way that Sansa had responded to his kiss.  _ Did Sansa want him? _ It was hard for him to believe that any woman wanted him. As he grew into a man, he experienced nothing but disappointment and ridicule from highborn ladies like her. This was why he preferred the company of whores. They had no choice but to accept him, as he was, he thought bitterly. Something inside him was telling him that he should not give up on the Lady of Winterfell so easily. He needed to go back to her. He needed to go back to Sansa and talk to her. He needed to speak with her honestly.

Tyrion walked purposefully through the corridors. When he reached Sansa's bedchamber, he knocked firmly. He heard her small voice through the heavy wooden door.

"Yes," she said.

"Lady Sansa," he continued, "I must speak with you."

He stood there, silently, waiting for her. For a moment, he thought that she might not come to the door. But after a few moments, the door slid open a crack, and he made his way inside.

The bedclothes were strewn about. The fire was burning in the hearth, casting their shadows against the walls. Sansa towered over him. Her eyes were red, and puffy.  _ Had she been crying? _ Surely, he thought, Sansa Stark would not waste her tears on him.

She was wearing a thin linen nightshirt. She walked over to her featherbed, and took a seat on the edge of it. Tyrion pulled the chair that sat in front of her writing desk over towards the featherbed and positioned it to face her _. _

" _ Sansa, you must know that I did not intend to hurt you. I would never intentionally hurt you." _

" _ Yes, my lord," _ she said, but she avoided his eyes.

He reached out a hand to her. He clasped her hands in his, and her hands seemed to be trembling slightly. He clasped his hands over hers, and her hands felt soft, and smooth, and warm. He caressed her slender wrists gently with his thumbs and it seemed to him that he could feel her pulse quicken beneath his touch. She looked up at him.

"Sansa," he began, "I care for you. I have always been fond of you. You must know that."

Her vivid blue eyes looked questioningly at his face.  _ Yes. _ She looked as if she had been crying. Tyrion stood up now, to face her. Though she sat, he stood at eye level with her. Her eyes looked soft, and sad. He could feel the warmth emanating from her, and he longed to reach out and caress her. But he was not sure how this would be received.

Untangling one of his hands from hers, he reached up to fix her hair. He felt her tremble slightly as he tucked a stray tendril of her auburn hair behind her left ear. As he grazed her skin, he felt a charge of electricity.  _ Did Sansa Stark, the lady of Winterfell...want him? _ No. He pushed the thought away.

She looked into his eyes and she looked like a scared doe. He cleared his throat. "What is it that you want from our union Sansa?"

She seemed unsure what to say. "Love." She looked at him directly. It felt as if she were looking through him.

"Love?" He repeated. "I think that I can give you that."

Her eyes softened, but she said nothing more.

Tyrion was not sure how to tell her how he felt for her. When they were forced together, he found himself becoming more and more entranced by his lovely young wife. But he knew that she detested him, and his wretched family. He knew that he disappointed her. She had grown up with the hopes of marrying a handsome Lord. He knew that he was not the husband of her dreams. For a while, he wondered what became of his wife, but he heard nothing of her movements or whereabouts. When they reconnected, he found himself impressed with her poise and strength. Throughout all of her hardships, she persevered and she came out on the other side stronger. He admired her. He sat for a long time, just looking at her. Gods she was beautiful. She had matured in the space of time since they had been apart. She was confident. She was strong. He felt as if he would be a hindrance to her.

She was watching him now. He was acutely aware of her eyes as they took him in.

"Lord Tyrion," she began, "I feel...as if I have embarrassed myself."

"How so my lady?" he regarded her curiously.

"You have seen my...nakedness." she lowered her gaze from his, her face reddened.

"And it was glorious," he smiled mischievously. "Sansa, we are both grown. You have been my wife. You have no reason to be embarrassed in front of me."

"But don't I, my lord? I have behaved in a way unbecoming of a lady."

"Sansa, look at me." He cupped her face in his hands. "You have no need to ever feel embarrassed in front of me."

She seemed unconvinced.

"Do you still want to be my wife?"

"I don't see how it can work my lord." she began.

"Call me Tyrion Sansa."

"I don't see how it can work, Tyrion." She looked into his eyes then, her expression a riddle.

"I don't want to live without you Sansa. I can hardly go a day without thinking about you." He stepped closer to her. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin chemise. He longed to slip it off of her. But he knew that was too much too soon. Especially in light of her present condition of embarrassment.

"I...feel...quite the same," she stammered.

He embraced her then. She felt warm, and soft in his arms. He felt the soft, roundness of her breasts against his chest, and smelled the sweet fragrance of her hair as he pulled her close to him. She wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his neck.

He pulled away from their embrace, "I promise you Sansa, I will never hurt you. Do you trust me?"

She nodded, what felt like a "Yes," and buried her face in his neck.


	16. 'Til The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion visit the godswood.

Today, Sansa would be taking her destiny into her hands. Her body hummed with excitement. She stood, in her dressing gown, looking out of the window of her bedchamber. The winter thaw continued. Sansa watched as the ice melted from the branches of the trees outside her windows. It wasn't very warm today, but it wasn't as cold as it had been during the approach of the Night King. Those days leading up to the battle had been the coldest in her living memory. The snow had risen so high outside of her windows that it had impeded her view of the horizon. But since the end of the Great War, the thick blanket of snow that had covered the ground had thinned considerably. Today the sky was a bright blue, and clear. There were very few clouds, and you could see far across the horizon, your view unimpeded. She stood in her dressing gown, nursing a warm copper cup of mulled wine. A handmaiden had just finished braiding her thick, auburn hair into a braided crown that sat regally atop her head, and was studded with rubies, pearls and gold hairpins. Today, she was to be married.

A chambermaid entered into her room, and seemed to be waiting for some direction from her.

"M'lady," the young woman with dark hair, and fat pink cheeks was staring at Sansa now, "I'm here to help you into your dress."

"Yes," Sansa thought, _the dress_. Sansa had her dressmaker put together a simple, elegant, off white dress for her. It was in a thick, warm fabric, with a sculpted bodice, and a high collar at the neck and it had buttons down the back that were alternating silver wolves, and gold lions. She wore long white gloves underneath the long sleeves of the dress. She had her cobbler make her a pair of off white, silk wedding slippers embroidered with lions and wolves in a swirling pattern of red and gold thread. To shield her from the cold of the godswood, she had a fluffy, white rabbit fur capelet made. She stared at herself now in the full length mirror that sat in the corner of her room. The young, plump maid stood behind her, as she studied herself in the mirror.

"You look beautiful m'lady." Her handmaiden beamed with pride.

Sansa's heart was beating so fast that she felt like she could hear it inside her head. It was like a drum beat. She donned her white rabbit fur capelet, and made her way to the entrance to the Godswood. As she stood at the doorway, she could see Jon waiting there for her. He was standing with his Queen, her silver hair gleaming in the winter sun. Her sister, Arya was there as well, and Ser Brienne. She noticed that Ser Brienne was locked hand in hand with Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. Bran sat directly in front of the weirwood tree at the heart of the Godswood.

The Godswood always felt old, and primal, and mythic. There were acres and acres of forest that had been untouched by the hands of either man or woman for thousands of years. Here, in the North, the godswood was as hardy, and as ancient as the bloodlines of its people. Sansa felt as if her footsteps disappeared into the earth beneath her feet. In the Godswood, the earth was moist and covered in a dense carpet of spent leaves, and a canopy of twisted branches loomed overhead protectively. In the center of the Godswood there was a deep, black pool of water that reflected the faces of those who came to pray and worship. And in its center, sat the heart tree itself, huge, and old and ancient. Tyrion and Jon stood by the heart tree, facing it, and Sansa thought that they seemed to look like children in front of the ancient tree. Her guests looked towards her as she walked to the center of the Godswood.

The Heart Tree had always fascinated Sansa. It's stark, white bark reminded her of winter, and its dark red hand shaped leaves reminded her of blood. As she looked at the blood red leaves of the tree, she thought back to the first time that she got her moonblood, the thing that "made her a woman." She was about to be made a woman anew. As she reached the center of the wood, she stood completely still. She was now standing side by side with Jon. He looked at her, and leaned in close to ask her, "Are you sure you want to do this?" This seemed a late moment to be asking that question, but she nodded her head "Yes."

Bran looked at them now, asking, "Who comes before the gods tonight?"

Jon answered, "Sansa of the House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes with the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Tyrion answered, "Tyrion, of House Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock. Who gives her?"

Jon stepped forward saying, "Jon, of the House Stark, who is her brother and protector."

Bran addressed the entire wedding party now, saying, "We gather here, in the sight of gods and men to bear witness between Lady Sansa of House Stark and Lord Tyrion of House Lannister.

Jon took out a length of ribbon and bound Sansa and Tyrion's hands together, before stepping back to stand beside his queen. Sansa watched as he gently squeezed her hand.

Bran then said to Sansa and Tyrion, "Look upon each other and say the words."

Sansa turned towards Tyrion, looking into his eyes, and said "I am his and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days."

Tyrion looked up at her, his eyes probing hers, and then said "I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days."

From that moment, everything became a blur. She remembered the smiles of her sister and brothers, even Bran seemed to smile slightly. After the ceremony, they retired to the great hall for a wedding feast.

The feast was a modest affair. They had wine, and a simple feast of roasted meats, and a selection of sweet things. Before long, Sansa began to think that people were anxiously waiting for them to retire to their bedchambers. For the night of their wedding, the household servants had made sure to make the rooms as comfortable for them as possible. Sansa sat next to Tyrion at the center of the long table, where her mother and father used to sit, when they had special guests. When Sansa began to look anxious, Tyrion grabbed hold of her hand beneath the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. He leaned over towards her, "Are you ready to retire Sansa? Just say the words."

She looked at him then, and gave a small nod. The day had been eventful. She was ready to retire. They rose from the table together. Tyrion let her take the lead. She walked ahead, and he followed close behind her, and they made their way from the hall, closing the heavy ironwood doors behind them. Sansa couldn't help but feel like every eye in the hall was on her as they left. But she didn't care.


	17. The Best of Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediately after wedding fluff ensues.

Tyrion closed the heavy ironwood door behind him. He was now alone with Sansa. He had once again married Sansa Stark, of Winterfell. This time, their union was witnessed by a small group of friends and family. The ceremony was without pomp and circumstance but it was sweet and simple. When they were married before, there had been a wedding in the Sept of Baelor, and the affair had been more elaborate, though nothing nearly as elaborate and Joffrey's wedding. Unlike the easy comfort of their ceremony in the Godswood, the wedding in the Sept was full of rituals and prayers and candles and incense. Both Sansa, and himself had been miserable the entire night. The whole spectacle of their first wedding was tense and uncomfortable for everyone involved. Joffrey, like the little cunt that he was, had removed the stool that was to allow Tyrion to cover Sansa's shoulders in a cloak of his protection. He thought this was a great joke. Everyone saw him do it, and no one stopped him. He could still remember the whispers and chitters of laughter as Sansa stood there unaware that she needed to kneel for him. But tonight, had been a happier affair and he was glad of it.

They retired from their wedding feast without even a threat of a "bedding" ceremony, and followed each other wordlessly from the great hall. As he walked into the Lord and Lady's chambers, he thought about all of the the Lords and Ladies that had occupied these rooms before them. These had been the chambers that Ned and Cate _ lyn Stark shared, and all of the Lords and Ladies of Winterfell in recent memory before them. Was he now, technically, the "Lord of Winterfell? _ "

He began to unbutton his doublet. He slipped out of it and laid it neatly on the chaise that sat next to Sansa's writing desk.  _ Sansa.  _ Sansa was standing across the room now, and she was standing behind her dressing screen. He could see the shadows of her long arms as she slipped off the fur capelet that she had been wearing. He could see her removing the simple gold necklace that she wore from her long, graceful neck, with her slender, elegant hands. She was unpinning her hair now, and placing each of the jeweled pins into a little box that sat on the dressing desk before her.

"Tyrion," she said softly, from behind the screen. "I need some...assistance." He stepped behind the screen that shielded her modesty to find that Sansa was now sitting on a small wooden stool, her back turned towards him. Her hair was completely loose now, and she was lifting up the back of her hair and draping it over her right shoulder. "Can you help me with these buttons?" Her hair smelled sweet and he wanted to bury his face in it. It felt like his feet were made of heavy stones as he made his way over to her.

He looked closely at the silver and gold buttons that adorned the back of her dress. They were alternating gold lions, and silver dire wolves. The buttons on the back of her dress were a thoughtful detail.  _ Sansa was always thoughtful _ . He stepped closer to her, to assist her with the dress, and his fingers felt like they were made of lead.

"Sansa, it seems that your dress is made entirely of buttons," he said with a smile, as he continued to unbutton the back of her bodice. As he unbuttoned her dress he noticed that her back, which had once been as smooth and unblemished as fresh cream, was covered in cuts that had long since healed.  _ Ramsay. One day,  _ he thought,  _ she would share her pain with him. _ He traced the lines of a particularly long scar that was near her shoulder blade, and he longed to kiss it. He wished that he could kiss it, and make it better, but he knew that this was folly. As he continued to feel more raised thin scars on her soft flesh, he began to feel like the wind had been knocked out of him. Sansa.  _ He should have protected her. _ Once he was finished unbuttoning the last button, Sansa swiveled around on the stool to look at him. She crossed her arms in front of her so that the dress still draped across her body, but it lay open in the back. Tyrion thought for a moment it looked as if she had wings. Her eyes looked deep blue, like the sky after a storm, and were slightly wet, as if she might cry. She only said to him, "Thank you."

"Of course, my lady." He said, and then he left her there, to continue undressing. "Would you like me to...turn my back to you, when you are ready to slip into bed?"

"There is no need, Tyrion," she said softly. He watched as she stood now, and behind the screen in silhouette he saw that the dress that she had been wearing had now fallen to the floor.

She stepped out from behind the screen now. He saw that she was wearing a simple pearl colored silk chemise that skimmed just above her knees. Her hair was loose, and full of thick, beautiful waves, left by the braided updo that she had been wearing during the ceremony. She stood before him now, and her beauty caught him off guard.

"What would you like me to do, Tyrion?"

"What would you like to do, my lady?" He wasn't sure what her comfort level was, He would follow wherever she wanted to lead.

This question seemed to take her aback. As she considered his question, he untied his breeches, slipped out of them, and laid them neatly on the chaise, along with his doublet. He was left now wearing only a simple sleeping tunic

He could tell that she wasn't exactly sure what she wanted to happen. "Sansa, I would very much like to hold you," he said.

"I would like that as well," she said, and she began to relax her shoulders.

Tyrion walked over towards the left side of the featherbed. He had noticed that Sansa seemed to prefer the right side of the bed. She sat on the right side now, glancing at him, and anxiously tapping her feet for a few moments, before slipping underneath the furs, and pulling them up to her chin. As Tyrion approached the left side of the bed, he found that there was a small set of steps there for him.  _ Thoughtful Sansa.  _ He climbed into bed next to her, and propped himself up on one elbow as he turned himself to face her.

"Come here Sansa," he whispered. She seemed to be shivering. "Are you afraid?"

"No, my lor-, No...Tyrion." She was now close enough to him that he could feel the warmth emanating from her skin, and smell the sweet fragrance of her skin and hair. She squirmed beneath the covers and soon, she was close enough that he could wrap his right arm around her. As he put his arm around her she felt soft, and warm. Absentmindedly he ran one hand down the length of her body, and back up to her shoulders. She was staring at his face.

"What are you thinking Sansa?" He asked her.

"I was thinking...that I'd very much like you to kiss me."

"Is that so?" He ran his hand through her hair. Her hair felt thick, and soft as silk. He caressed her face. His hands grazed her cheek, and he felt her tremble beneath his fingertips. He leaned in now, close enough to taste her lips. When he kissed her, she parted her lips softly, and he could feel the sweet warmth of her mouth welcoming him. He pulled away to look at her. Her breathing was shallow and he could feel her heart beating fast against his chest.  _ Gods she was soft.  _ Tyrion wanted to feel her skin against his. He ran his free hand down along her body until he reached the hem of her chemise. He placed his hand just beneath the hem, and looked into her eyes.

"Is this okay?" He said.

Sansa nodded a " _ yes _ ." Tyrion let his hand slip beneath the chemise, to lightly caress her bare thigh. As he caressed her upper thigh he became aware that she was not wearing any smallclothes. He felt small criss-crossed scars across her left thigh, they felt like little raised lines. He wanted to kiss each one. It had been years since he had lain with a woman, had touched a woman and now he was lying in bed with Sansa Stark.  _ Sansa Stark, young, and beautiful and sweet, and his _ . He wanted her very much. But he didn't want to frighten her. Gods knows she had been through enough.

As he lay there, facing her, he felt the softness of her breasts pressing against him, and he could feel a throbbing in his groin.  _ He had to be careful. He had to be gentle.  _ He continued to caress her thigh, and then slipped his hands around her slender waist. He ran his hand up the center of her back, and then down towards the small of her back before grazing lower to cup the soft flesh of her buttocks in his palm. She was staring at him, her eyes heavily lidded and full of desire, and he felt as if he could burst open from the want of her.

"Sansa," he said, "may I look at you?"

"You are looking at me now, my lord," she said playfully, a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Would you like to slip out of that chemise? I'd like to gaze upon your loveliness." He smiled mischievously.

"My loveliness...you say?" She began to wiggle pulling the chemise up from its hem, until finally she slipped it off, over her head, unceremoniously, her hair falling about both her shoulders.

Sansa sat up now on the bed watching him. She was now completely naked before him. He knew that there was no way that the sleeping tunic that he wore could possibly hide his excitement. She was beautiful. His eyes caressed every part of her body from the tops of her temples to her feet before lingering on her lovely breasts. Her breasts were small, and firm, and perfect and he wanted to suckle each one until he felt dizzy.

"Are you satisfied with my loveliness my lord?" She said, a wicked smile forming on her face. For once in his life, Tyrion was speechless.


	18. Like Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Sansa retire after the wedding.

" _I've done it_ ," Sansa thought to herself. She had married Tyrion Lannister, by choice. Now, they had retired to their marriage bed. If she could have seen the future, she never would have predicted this. But here she was, in bed with "the imp." He was touching her now. His hands travelling across her body as if it were an unexplored terrain. Her heart beat fast in her chest. Her body felt like it was on fire. It seemed like everything around them had disappeared and all that existed, and all that ever would be was there, alone with them and inside these rooms. To Sansa in that moment, everything fell away and the world outside their rooms ceased to exist, she had never allowed herself to let go before.

She lay on her stomach now, her hair swept to one side, and her head propped up on her folded arms as if they were a pillow. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Her skin prickled with excitement and nervousness and gooseflesh rose on her bare skin, as she lay as naked as the Gods had made her. She could feel the eyes of her husband watching her, caressing her. She could sense his warmth as he moved closer to her on their bed. She felt the bed sink underneath his weight, as he lay next to her, the weight of him feeling as sacred as a prayer. They shared no words, but she could tell that he was looking at the scars she bore. Since gaining these scars, she had taken to wearing high collars and long sleeves to hide them, but now she was laid bare, her secrets on full view before the eyes of the old gods, the new, and the man who was now laying beside her.

"Sansa," he said, "You seem far away."

 _He is not wrong._ She thought to herself. _I am far, far away._

He rubbed her back softly, his hands gently caressing her skin, and tracing the outlines of her scars. Soon, he brushed her hair aside, and the feel of it, silky and soft, grazing her back made her shudder. She heard him laugh softly, as he heard this, and then he kissed a trail down her back, as if he were drawing a map of his desire for her. Wherever he encountered a cut, he would kiss it, softly, his lips as soft against her skin as a whisper. He kissed her at the nape of her neck, tracing along the edges of her ear with his tongue before gently sucking on her earlobe as if it were the most delicious sweet. The sound of him breathing hard in her ear made her shiver. She felt as if she was about to sink into the bed. He began to kiss his way from the nape of her neck, to the small of her back, and soon, Sansa felt small kisses trailing along the curve of her butt and skimming the tops of her thighs. As she felt his tongue graze the inside of her thigh, a small moan escaped her lips. His hands started to part her thighs, and she felt the stubble of his beard grazing against her inner thigh as he kissed her there, and she buried her hands in his hair. It felt like he was inhaling her, for a moment, she wondered if she should be more modest, but she didn't want it to stop. His voice sounded as thick as honey to her when he said, "Turn over."

As Sansa turned to face him, she wondered how she had ever thought him hideous. As she looked into his face she was overcome with the desire to grab him, and pull him closer to her. She reached out and tangled her fingers in his golden curls and pulled his face closer to kiss him. He groaned slightly as she began to let her hands explore his body, and soon he was on top of her, her legs wrapped around him tightly as if she meant to keep him, to lock him in place forever. But she knew that she could not. She felt the wetness between her thighs welcoming him and he bent down his head and took her nipple into his mouth like a greedy child and cupped her other breast in his strong hand as he slipped into her finally, her body cradling and welcoming him, a moan of satisfaction escaping her lips. Her body hungered for him, and every thrust that he gave her teased that hunger. Where their bodies met she felt a throbbing, pulsing desperation-as if she were chasing something, she knew not what, and as she reached out her hands to catch it, each moment the thing that she was chasing slipped further and further away from her. She knew that if she could hold out her hands a little further, a little longer, she would catch it. If she could push her body a little further, a little longer, she would grasp it for a moment, and it would feel as sweet as a drop of honey tastes on the tongue. Their bodies moved together, in desperation, chasing, and hungering until finally, Sansa caught it, she caught desire in her hands like a firefly, and it shined, like a flame, and they collapsed in each others arms before drifting off into a dreamy sleep.


	19. Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion prepares for his journey. Daenerys looks towards the future.

Chapter 19: Dragonstone

Part I: Tyrion

The storm clouds loomed large outside the castle windows. Tyrion lay in bed listening to the bellowing thunder and watched as the rain fell hard against the castle windows outside. He contented himself by listening to his wife sleeping.  _ His wife _ . Sansa lay in bed across from him, sleeping peacefully, her eyes closed tightly, and her breathing deep and steady. Her face was a study in calm, and her hair was splayed out across the bed covering her pillow and his, shimmering like spun copper in the candlelight. Tyrion steadied himself by listening to the sound of her breathing, and found comfort in the small fitful movements that she made as she slept, and dreamed. He wondered what she dreamt about. A few times, he glanced over at her and he thought he saw the corners of her mouth twitch as if in a smile. He was running out of time to enjoy her smiles. Today, he would be leaving for Dragonstone. He was to go alone. Sansa was not to go with him. They had only a night to enjoy each other, and he would be travelling to Dragonstone, as soon as he broke his fast. He did not want to leave the bed. He did not want to leave the room.

He sat up in bed now. The castle was still dark, and quiet. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he knew that it was earlier than most in the castle probably intended to rise. He felt Sansa begin to stir next to him.

"Tyrion," she said sleepily, her voice small and tentative. "Why are you awake?"

"Just thinking," he said.

"You do too much of it, my lord, " she said with a slight smile. As she turned towards him, her eyes were small, and tired.

"My mind is occupied today. This is nothing new, of course." He patted her softly on her thigh. She began to shift her body beneath the coverlets, moving closer to him. "My lady should not worry."

"Shouldn't I? You are to leave today." Her face had begun to lose some of its drowsiness. She nestled next to him now, her body warm and soft and supple. She looked at him with a doe eyed innocence that tore at his heart. She cuddled up next to him, her head on his chest, listening to his heart and he felt the softness of her pressed up against him. "I will write to you as soon as I reach Dragonstone," he said, stroking her hair.

He could feel her warm breath in his chest hair as she said, "Write me before."

"I shall," he said, stroking her hair. "Try to sleep, sweetling." She nuzzled closer to him and soon, he could see her closing her eyes. As he ran his hands across her smooth, warm flesh, he brushed his hand across one of her breasts and felt the nipple harden at his touch. He watched as his sweet little wife fell asleep. Though she seemed to fall back asleep easily enough, he could not.

Tyrion must have fallen asleep at some point, because when the rains quieted, and the light streaked through the windows in their chambers, he awoke to the sound of a knock at the door.

"Tyrion," the voice of Lord Varys spoke to him from the other side of the door. "Your presence is requested in the Great Hall."

_ Of course it is.  _ Tyrion thought to himself.

"A moment, Varys." He said, projecting his voice across the room. Sansa stirred.

"Sansa," he caressed her face, "I must go speak with the Queen." She looked drowsily at him, and he wasn't sure she understood. He disentangled himself from their embrace and kissed her sweetly on the lips.

As Tyrion slid out of bed, he grabbed the tunic that he had been wearing and slipped it over his head. He walked to the door, opening it slightly, and found Lord Varys still standing there.

"Varys," he said, " I will be there shortly. Let me...ready myself."

"Of course, Lord Hand," the eunuch still looked tired, and wan, Tyrion thought. Tyrion rang a bell for the servant. A young, plump girl with reddish brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, peeked her head out of the door across from their chambers.

"Yes, m'Lord," she said.

"Bring me a basin of warm water, a bar of soap, and a cup of ale."

"Yes, m'Lord. And, for the lady?" The servant stopped for a moment, looking at him expectantly.

"Let her sleep," he replied.

"Yes, m'Lord." Tyrion watched as the servant made her way through the halls, and Lord Varys turned the corner, and he closed the door and glanced around the room for his slippers. The day was not going to wait for him or anyone else, and Dragonstone called.

Part II: Daenerys

Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, sat at the head of the long table at the center of the Great Hall in Winterfell. Jon Snow, sat at her right. She was finally to ride south and take her armies to Dragonstone to prepare for the siege of King's Landing. The dragons were mostly recovered. She was in good spirits, and the soldiers had been rested. Now she planned to make her way to Dragonstone, the ancient seat of House Targaryen, and take back what was rightfully hers.

Dragonstone was the place of her birth. She had been born during a great storm one night there, and now she was to return home during another great storm to retake her birthright. It seemed like justice.

Dragonstone was, albeit, not a happy place. Many found it grim, and it was surrounded by storm swept waters, crags of stone, and devoid of arable land for planting crops. It was meant to be a fortress, not a home. The Valyrians had built Dragonstone up from the sea as if by magic.  _ Some say it was built with magic. _ , Daenerys, was not sure. What was true, is that the black stone of the towers was formidable, and was burned by dragonfire or some other sorcery into the shapes of dragons and gargoyles. The dragon shaped towers loomed over the rocky shores of Blackwater Bay like sentinels, and anyone who saw them, could not help but look at them in fear and wonder. Aegon Targaryen planned his entire invasion of Westeros from within the walls of the castle at Dragonstone, calling his allies and bannermen to his side, and drawing up battle plans in the Chamber of the Painted Table, that sat behind the throne room.

Today, in Winterfell, surrounded by her friends, she looked towards the future. Today, Daenerys was outfitted for travel. Her long, pale, silver hair was braided intricately and hung at her back. Her violet eyes were alight with promise, and she awaited the council of her Hand of the Queen, Lord Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion had asked for her permission to marry the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark. He wanted to leave her service. But she still needed his council. He was to leave his new bride behind today, and she wanted to speak with him, to discuss the future.

Jon Snow, Sansa's older brother, had been a constant voice in her ear, begging her to let Lord Tyrion leave her service. As yet, she was unmoved. Her eyes searched the Great Hall for him, but she found him not. Lord Varys had only just entered the hall, and he was approaching her at the head table.

"Lord Varys," she said, regarding him curiously. Lately he did not look well. Maybe the North made him as uneasy as it made the Dragons. "Have you spoken with my Lord Hand?"

"Yes, your Grace," Varys assured her, "he is making his way to the hall as we speak."

"Lord Varys," she said, "Are you going to break your fast with us this morning? Do have a seat." She gestured to a space on the bench across from her. Her eyes continued to scan the room for Lord Tyrion. He was not here.

Jon had been in conversation with some of his house guard, about protections for Sansa, once they left for Dragonstone. He was worried about the discomfort that the Northern lords might have with her marrying a Lannister.

_ Lannister, Stark, What did it matter?  _ She thought to herself. She was more focused on the war to come, than the wars that had caused such enmity. The War of the Five Kings, was nothing more than a squabble among usurpers as far as she was concerned. The Seven Kingdoms had been in the hands of mad men, and usurpers, but she was finally here, to set things right. She was the blood of the dragon, and she remembered who she was, and what she was, and she would take what was hers, with fire and blood.

_ Fire and blood.  _ Daenerys looked out among the sea of faces before her in the hall. She had her army.  _ Yes. She had lost some men, but the ones who remained were fierce and loyal to her.  _ She had two dragons _. She had two grown dragons, and a horde of Dothraki screamers at her back.  _ She had survived assassins. She had grieved a husband and a brother and a child.  _ She had walked through fire, and come out unburnt, and naked, with ashes at her feet and given birth to three dragons. She was a miracle. She could make the impossible come true, and now, she was going home. _


	20. Fire & Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen head South.

_ South _ . They flew South, Drogon glided through the clouds as swift as a shadow, his large black wings whipping against the wind as loud as thunder. Dany, held onto him tightly, grasping the black scales of his neck in her hands as tightly as reins. The North was vast. Dany marvelled at the size of the pine-covered hills and snow capped mountains and the harsh barren land masses in between them. Dotted among the snow-covered peaks, were villages and holdfasts, all of them beginning to look more and more like ants as Drogon rose into the clouds. He climbed higher and higher into the vast expanse of sky and soon the people and holdfasts below began to look like patches of color in the distance, until they seemed to disappear and all that Dany could feel or see was the wind. Dragonstone called him home. She could feel it, like a siren song calling to him, and to her. Dany felt him twist beneath her as he glided along the wind, and it felt like he was reading her mind, or he knew where she wanted to go. She held her body close to his and he felt like flame made flesh, hot, and powerful, and dangerous. Her silvery braid fluttered in the wind. In the distance she could see Jon Snow, riding Rhaegal.  _ It's as if he was born to ride. _ She thought to herself. She watched him holding tight to Rhaegal, his dark curls tossed by the wind. He took command of Rhaegal as if he were born to do it. She knew that she and Jon would make it to Dragonstone long before anyone else. It would take two days of riding to get to Dragonstone by air. The ground troops were going to take a fortnight to reach them. She could hear Drogon, beginning to breathe heavily.  _ We will need to need to stop soon _ . She thought. Daenerys was going to take her cues from Drogon, and when he was tired they would rest. The snowy expanse of the North soon gave way to greenery as they reached The Neck. Jon flew over to her now, with Rhaegal, and seemed to be signalling that they should stop to rest. She nodded at him, and Drogon seemed to know also what they intended because he began to dive towards the ground. She held on tightly to him, squeezing her thighs together, and laying her body flat against his as they barrelled down against the wind. They flew over swamp land, and soon they reached an open patch of green land. The land before them took on more detail, as Drogon got closer. He was almost close enough to the ground now to touch it with his feet, and he did, with a running stop, and Dany held on as tightly as she could, so as not to slip off of his back. She looked around to see that Rhaegal had landed before them, and Jon was petting his green and bronze scales. Daenerys released her grip from Drogon, and he lowered his head so that she could dismount. She walked over to Jon, smiling.

"You are a natural born rider Jon Snow." She regarded him with some fascination.

"I'm glad you think so," he smiled. "Do you know much about this part of the country Your Grace?"

She shook her head, "No, I must say I do not. The landscape is...unique."

Rhaegal lowered himself to the ground, and Jon began to dismount. He walked over to Daenerys then, adjusting his cloak.

"This is the Neck. My lord father was great friends with Howland Reed, he is Lord of the Neck. We are still in the North, if you can believe it."

"The North is quite vast."

"It's larger than any other part of the Seven Kingdoms…"

Daenerys had become rather close to the "King in the North" as he had styled himself.

"Lord Snow," she interrupted, "we should probably feed and water the Dragons."

"Your grace, there seems to be a body of water over there," he pointed towards what seemed to be a smallish lake. "As for feeding them...I'll leave that to you." There seemed to be a hint of mischief in his eyes.

Daenerys, said, "They hunt for their own food. But I worry about them straying too far."

"I'm sure they can take care of themselves Your Grace." He was watching now as Rhaegal and Drogon sniffed the air. It seemed that they could smell the water.

"Once the Dragons are rested, will we fly straight to Dragonstone Your Grace?"

"Yes."

"You have many enemies. We may want to avoid any areas over hostile territory." His eyes looked worried. He continued, "Of course. We should try to fly a great deal of the distance in darkness...if possible."

"Do you imagine that our enemies will pluck us from the sky Lord Snow?"

"Truthfully. Yes."

She could tell that he was well and truly worried. "I am no weak flower Jon Snow. I am the blood of old Valyria. What can anyone do to me? I have two full grown dragons."

"Pardon me, your grace, but all it takes is one well placed arrow, right here," he said, putting his hand over her heart.

His touch made her heartbeat quicken. She placed her hand over his, and pressed her body up against his palm.

She smiled, "You worry for my safety."

"You are my queen."

"Is that all I am?"

She began now to press her body against the full length of him, and she could see in his eyes that he longed to hold her, but something prevented him.

"Your grace, I…" Before he could finish his sentence she kissed him. His lips were soft, and warm, and full and she sucked gently on his lower lip. He pulled her closer then, almost crushing her in his arms.

"You should learn about me Jon Snow."

"I'm trying," he said, looking at her as if she were a puzzle.

"I am a Targaryen," she said mischievously, "I am a conqueror, I take what I want."

"Is that what this is?" He said stroking her hair. "You are taking what you want."

"Yes. With fire...and blood."

"Well, hopefully it won't come to that," he said with a wry smile.


	21. The Lion Still Has Claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion contemplate the future, and have a long farewell.

**The Great Hall**

" _ Sansa Stark of House Lannister,"  _ Sansa thought to herself. Is that how she should style herself now? It was the night after her wedding, and she lay in bed staring at the canopy over her head. Her Lord husband, Tyrion Lannister, had been called to speak with the Queen. Apparently, he had instructed the servants to let her sleep, because it was well past noon, and she was still abed. The place where Tyrion had lain next to her had grown cold. She was not sure if he was still in the castle, or if he had already departed for Dragonstone. As Sansa lay in bed, she began to contemplate the future. She was now well and truly a married woman, consummated, and her husband was to be thousands of miles away from her for Gods knows how long. Her long auburn hair was tangled and frizzy from a night of rough sleeping, and being a toy in her husband's hands. She imagined that she looked quite a mess. She lay for a moment, remembering the urgency of his touches, and the warmth of his skin, and she could feel a curling tension within her core that she decided to push away, she sat straight up in bed. " _ I will be alone for many months," _ She thought, and she felt the hunger already beginning to claw at her from the inside. She had only just been reunited with Tyrion, and now he was to leave her for gods knows how long.

Sansa sat up with her back pressed against several pillows, and looked around her room. The sunlight streaked through her windows. " _ It must be well into the day _ ," she thought, sliding down onto the warm floor, and slipping the fox fur slippers onto her feet. She walked over to the mirror near her dressing table, and admired herself. " _ My hair is a mess," _ she thought as she studied her reflection. She sat down on the stool that accompanied the dressing mirror and began to brush the tangles from her hair. She brushed and oiled her hair until it shimmered like spun gold in the sunlight, and then began to braid her hair into several thick braids, which she pinned behind her head neatly in a bun. After calling for her handmaidens, Sansa bathed, and dressed in a long, black gown, with a high collar and a fur cape to cover her shoulders, and made her way to the Great Hall. She hoped to find that Lord Tyrion had not yet departed.

The halls of Winterfell were beginning to feel less hectic. As Sansa walked through them, she felt keenly, the chill of the hallway. As she approached the Great Hall, she could smell the aroma of freshly baked bread coming from the kitchen, and hear the servants frantically brushing and scrubbing pots and pans. The Great Hall was large and beginning to look empty, as the men that had slept and ate and fought at Winterfell began to trickle away like so much melting snow. The eight, heavy, long wooden tables of the hall were dotted here and there sparsely with the remaining men of Winterfell, and the Vale. The Unsullied and the Dothraki, seemed to have already departed for Dragonstone, as there was none to be seen in the Great Hall when Sansa looked around for their faces. At one table, Sansa spotted Jaime Lannister and Ser Brienne, engaged in some lively conversation. At another table, near the center of the room and closer to the hearth, she saw Arya, and her blacksmith, playfully bantering. Arya's hearty laugh rang out through the hall like music as she made some jape or other, and Sansa thought to herself how good it felt to hear her sister laugh. Sansa continued to make her way into the hall, her eyes scanning the room for a head full of golden curls at one of the wooden tables. But she did not see her Lord husband anywhere. Finally she went towards the table at the exact center of the room, and sat there, to eat her solitary breakfast, beside a few Winterfell soldiers. They bowed their heads to her with a "M'Lady" as she took her seat. Her Lord father had always said that a lord needed to eat with his men. As the lady of Winterffell, this was now her responsibility. Her lord father always kept an extra seat at his own table for one of his men, and he would dine with a different man, and have a conversation with him, to get to know them better. It was his way.

She could see one of her handmaidens, "Mora!" She called to her. The young woman walked over to her, eyes bright and alert.

"Yes, m'lady?"

"Has Lord Tyrion been in the hall today Mora?"

"Yes, m'Lady. I think he was here earlier, with the Queen."

"Ah," Sansa said, "Has she departed for Dragonstone?"

"Yes m'lady, she flew off on that dragon...and your brother too, on the other one."

"I see. Is there any of her party still here at Winterfell?"

"Yes m'Lady, I saw that eunuch fellow."

"Mora, might I have some ale, some of that fresh bread, and some jam?"

"Yes, m'lady."

And like that, Mora was off to the kitchen, and Sansa was left with her thoughts.  _ Surely, my lord husband would not leave without saying goodbye?  _ She shook the thought from her mind. When Mora returned, she sat a cup of ale down on the table, and a pewter plate filled with bread and jam.

"Anything else m'lady"

"No," Sansa said, "that will be all."

Arya noticed Sansa sitting alone, and came over to sit beside her.

"Sansa," she said sidling up beside her sister. "Looking for the imp?"

"Must you call him that?" The edge in Sansa's voice, caused her sister to look a bit more concerned.

"I've seen the im...your Lord husband." She said, grabbing a piece of bread from Sansa's plate. "He was walking towards the library."

Sansa felt relieved, but she didn't want to betray her feelings, lest her sister tease her mercilessly.

"Thank you Arya." She said taking a bite of bread and jam.

"Seven hells Sansa! You're in love with the imp?" Arya's face widened in a grin. "I thought you were just trying to solidify an alliance...or making a political move...you actually are in love with the imp…"

"Can you please not call him that?" Sansa looked at her sister, putting her hand on her shoulder, "Please."

"Alright. Sansa Lannister." Arya smirked. " I won't call him the imp anymore. You really have got to lighten up. Are you going to go find your love then?" She said jokingly, batting her eyelashes.

"Yes, since you ask." Sansa finished up the last bite of her breakfast, took a sip of ale and started her brisk walk towards the library.

**The Winterfell Library**

Tyrion Lannister made his way up the steep stone steps that corkscrewed around the library tower. The library at winterfell was impressive, and Tyrion enjoyed cozying up with a flagon of wine, and reading near the fire. He hoped to borrow a few volumes from the Winterfell library for his long voyage to Dragonstone. He would be travelling from Winterfell to White Harbour, and would take a ship from White Harbour to Dragonstone. The travel to White Harbor would take gods knows how long, he would be travelling on horseback. He hated to travel this way, due to his short legs. He had a riding saddle made specifically for this purpose, to ease the pain in his legs...only it did nothing for his ass. Riding on horseback was his least favorite activity. His only solace was that travelling by ship would cut his land travel time considerably. As Tyrion made his way into the library itself, he almost bumped into the Septon. The Septon here was young, thin and hungry looking and was practically always falling asleep or sleeping whenever Tyrion visited the library. Septon Maldon was young, and thin, with dark hair, and apparently narcolepsy. Everytime Tyrion came into the library he seemed to be snoring loudly perched over some yellowing parchment or other. Not many other people took advantage of the Winterfell libraries. This was a shame. The library at Winterfell was quite fine, with hundreds of volumes and scrolls, some of them quite rare.

As Tyrion began to scan the rows of shelves in the library, he saw out of the corner of his eye, a tall, slim, stunning redhead, with an astoundingly long neck, walking towards him.

"My lady," he bowed to his lady wife. "I see you've finally woken from your slumber," he winked at her.

A blush rose to her cheeks. "Yes, my lord. I was, " she took a deep breath, "afraid that you had left without saying goodbye."

"I would never." He took Sansa's hand, and held it, before kissing it gently. "Were you looking for me?"

"Yes. When are you leaving?"

"I've asked for a reprieve from our Queen. I'm to leave tomorrow. I was able to convince her that one day won't make a big difference in our battle plans." He winked at her. "I wanted to borrow a few volumes from the Winterfell libraries for my voyage…"

"This is your library. You are technically the Lord of Winterfell…" She smiled then.

"Come, sit, talk with me." Tyrion motioned for her to sit at a table near the fire.

As they made themselves comfortable near the fire, the sound of Septon Maldon's snoring began to reach a crescendo. Sansa looked over towards where he sat, using a large leatherbound volume of yellowing parchment as a pillow. Tyrion shared a glance with her, and they both chuckled.

Tyrion stretched out his hand, across the small, square wooden table they shared, and held Sansa's hands in his. He looked into her eyes, clear, and blue as a summer's day. " _ Gods she was beautiful _ ," he thought to himself.

"Sansa, I know this situation is less than ideal."

"True enough. Your queen intends it to be."

"Sansa...with Ser Jorah no longer at her side, she feels a bit...isolated."

"She has Jon." Sansa said defiantly.

"This is true. But, Jon serves a very...different purpose."

Sansa raised her eyebrows. "Well...at least I have you to myself for one more night."

"Yes," he said, and he gently caressed her arm, feeling the soft skin against his fingertips. "And we mean to make the best of it."

Tyrion thought back to the last time that he was in Winterfell, way back before he was forced to marry Sansa Stark. When he first entered the great hulking stone maze that was Winterfell, and walked into this cozy library it was overwhelming. He sat in this very library, and felt unnerved by the howling of wolves. Somewhere within the maze of Winterfell, wolves were howling, and it chilled his blood. The sound of a wolf howling brings out the primal fear in a man. It takes you back to man's days in the forest, hiding in the darkness from things with sharp claws.  _ Lions and wolves both have sharp claws _ . Lady Stark... _ or should he say Lady Lannister _ , was a true direwolf. She had caught him, and he was willing prey. He was utterly and completely smitten with his young wife. As she studied him, he thought of the refrain:

_ In a coat of gold or a coat of red, _

_ a lion still has claws, _

_ And mine are long and sharp, my lord, _

_ as long and sharp as yours. _

He hoped to the gods old and new, that she was smitten with him as well. She seemed to be quite fond of him, sure, but they would be apart now, for a considerable amount of time. Tyrion sighed.

"What's wrong my lord?" Sansa stroked his face. "You seem far away."

"It's my turn to be far away I guess. Would you like to take a walk with me?"

"Yes, I would like that very much."

Tyrion rose, and held out his hand. Sansa took it, and they walked to the long winding library steps to descend to the courtyard.

Outside in the courtyard, light snow swirled in the wind. The noise and chaos of the courtyards had died down. Winterfell was almost reduced to its original remaining inhabitants prior to the Great War. The thick stone walls had kept the interior of the library quiet and insulated from the noise of the men working outside. The walls were still being repaired. Outside in the courtyard was a study in controlled confusion and noise. There were men shouting, and breaking stones. There were horses neighing and stomping, and pulling large wheeled wooden boxes filled with stone, to repair the outer walls of the castle. In the middle of all of it, Sansa and Tyrion walked, hand in hand.

"Where are we going?" Sansa asked, the chill of the air bringing a rosy hue to her cheeks. Tyrion looked up at her.

"Where would you like to go?" He asked.

"I'd like to go to the Godswood," she said, biting her bottom lip. "I'd like to say a prayer for your safe return."

"To the Godswood we go." He gave her hand a squeeze.

They walked until they reached the weirwood forests. They made their way through dense canopies of oak and ironwood trees, and stopped at the large grey, moss covered stone that sat near the center of the Godswood, by the Heart Tree. Their reflections as clear as a mirror in the still pool of dark water beside the Heart Tree. Sansa knelt down on the mossy ground , and Tyrion did the same.

"What do we do?" Tyrion asked. These were not his gods. Tyrion looked at the face of the Heart Tree that stood before him, tracing the outline of the red sap with his eyes, feeling somewhat scared, but somewhat peaceful. The deep red eyes carved into the stark white bark of the tree seemed to be assessing him. He felt like the Gods were judging him, and he wasn't sure if they found him wanting. "Do I close my eyes?" He asked.

Sansa gently touched his shoulder. "You need only talk to the gods. That's all. Tell them your dreams. Tell them your wants. Feel the peace." She smiled at him. "You can close your eyes as you wish."

They knelt there together, eyes closed, and spoke with the Gods. Tyrion prayed that he would make it back to Sansa. He prayed that she would be safe in Winterfell. He prayed that the war would be won, and that a just ruler would rule Westeros. He prayed that the journey to Dragonstone would be uneventful, and he prayed that he would once again hold Sansa in his arms. When he opened his eyes, Sansa was staring at him.

"Are you ready to go back to the castle?" She said.

He nodded, and they rose from the mossy ground, their knees wet from the damp dirt of the forest.

"What should we do now my lord...Tyrion," Sansa said timidly.

"We can go back to our rooms. If you wish." He rose an eyebrow.

Sansa absently ran her hand through his golden curls. She bent down to him, cupping his face in her hands, and tentatively leaned in to kiss him, playfully sucking at his bottom lip. He felt a stirring in his groin.

"I take that as a "Yes." He said. As he followed his wife from the Godswood, he thought to himself, " _ as long and sharp as yours. _ " He was at the mercy of the gods, and the mercy of his lady wife.


	22. The Dragon Has Three Heads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion, Daenerys and Bran contemplate the future...and the past.

Tyrion

Tyrion awoke to a pair of eyes staring at him. Eyes, as blue and radiant as the shimmering seas off the coast of the Westerlands, surveyed his face, the intensity startled him. He wasn't sure what she expected to find.

"Enchanted by my good looks? Perhaps you have come to believe that I am the Knight of Flowers after all," he said. His lady wife, arched her eyebrows at him in amusement.

She hit him playfully on the shoulder. "I was only studying your face. It will be a long time before I see it again," she said.

Sansa's auburn hair shimmered in the flickering candlelight, and Tyrion found it hard to keep his hands out of it. His fingers soon found themselves entangled in her hair, feeling the softness of it. It passed through his fingers like silk, and he pulled her face closer to his, claiming her lips for his own.. She leaned into him, then pressing her body up against him, and her warmth was intoxicating.  _ When would he get to see her like this again? _ He imagined it would be a very long time before he could travel back to Winterfell.. She snuggled closer to him, breaking his train of thought.

"Sansa," he said, "I'm sorry that things are …" he sighed, "this way."

"The Gods have us at their will." She smiled.

Tyrion noticed that the smile did not reach her eyes. " _ My dutiful wife. _ " He thought.

"Once we reach Dragonstone, and we rendez-vous with the Unsullied and the Dothraki army, we will be marching on King's Landing," he said.

"What do you mean "we?" There was a fire building behind her words. "I thought you were only to provide guidance. Are you meant to be fighting in the field?" Sansa's eyes sharpened on him, and she pulled away from their embrace.

"Sansa, sweetling, I will be providing counsel, yes. But I may spend some time in the battlefield." He studied her eyes. Her eyes were wet and blue, and he felt he might fall into them.

"The last time you were in the field you almost lost your eye...and your nose." She ran her fingers over his scar.

"I will do everything that I can to come back to you. I promise." He said.

"You promise?" She sounded as innocent as the little dove that she used to be, and his heart felt brittle as if the next word that she said might break him.

"I promise." He said. "Well," he caressed her cheek, "I'm still here now."

"Yes," she smiled. "I"m beginning to think you aren't the perverted little monster that everyone told me you would be. It's quite disappointing."

"I am loathe to disappoint a lady, especially one as lovely as you." He said.

Tyrion was now aware of the softness and the warmth of Sansa's body pressed up against him. He wanted to bury himself in that warmth. He claimed her mouth with a hungry kiss, and was surprised to find her response just as eager. The sweetness of her kiss, and the gentle movements of her tongue against his were as intoxicating as the finest Dornish red. She began to wrap her arms around him, her hands playing in his curls, and pulling him closer ever closer. He bent to kiss her at the crook of her neck and felt her tremble, a sigh escaping her lips so sweetly he almost thought he imagined it. She wrapped her legs around him, and he could feel, as his arousal betrayed him, the wetness at the juncture of her thighs. As he turned his attention from light kisses to caressing her breasts and she arched her back thrusting them towards him. He lavished attention on one and then the other and he could see her eyes rolling back into her head. He needed to feel her around him then, and he looked at her, touching her face and she nodded to him. He pushed himself inside of her then, and she made the most glorious sound, her hands tangled in his hair, her face flush and glowing.

She looked at him then, and he felt as if they were the only two people in the world, and he wished that he could stay there, just as they were forever. She lifted her hips to meet his, each movement of her hips sending him deeper inside her, first slowly and deliberately, then frantically, as their tempo rose until finally they moved together like dragon's wings in the darkness.

Daenerys

_ A young man with silver hair, stood before a beautiful woman. Her hair was black, silky, with ringlets framing her face, and her skin bronzed and tan in the gleam of the candlelight. The young man was agitated. His indigo eyes burned through Daenerys as if they were made of flame. _

_ "Aegon" What better name for a king?" he said. He paced back and forth, as if he were about to wear a hole into the floor, saying over and over again "The dragon has three heads. There must be one more. The dragon has three heads." _

Daenerys, Targaryen awoke in bed, covered in a mist of sweat, her bedclothes, sticking to her skin. She had dreamt again of the young man with the silver hair. She had dreamt of him every night, since coming to Dragonstone. Her brother used to tell her, when he wanted to scare or threaten her, that she had "woken the dragon." Since coming here to this place, she felt that she had done just that. Next to her, Jon Snow lay, undisturbed. His eyes closed peacefully, dreaming of something much more pleasant, the sound of his calm breathing brought her back to the present. Daenerys felt something hot, wet and slick between her thighs. She sat up straight in bed, pulling the covers back.  _ Her moonblood. _ She had not bled since before she lost her husband, Drogo. She had not bled since before she gave birth to her son, stillborn, the price that she had paid for blood magic- _ The Stallion Who Mounts the World _ , the life that never was, and never would be. She called out for her handmaidens.

Her handmaidens Emi, and Zali came to her room. They immediately saw what it was that she needed.

"I will draw you a bath Khaleesi," Emi said. She was slowly becoming used to the common tongue. Zali nodded, and went to fetch a cloth for Daenerys to wear between her legs. Jon Snow had started to stir now, squirming, noticing the lack of covers, and the noise and activity within their room.

He looked down, to see that Daenerys was bleeding."Dany," he said. He reached out to her, and caressed her face, brushing away a tendril of her silvery hair. "I'll...give you some privacy."

Daenerys welcomed this privacy. What does this mean? She thought. Would she bear a living child again? Her mind was flooded with thoughts.

She remembered the fire that burned within her when she looked into the face of and, heard the words of the Maegi, Mirri Maz Duur.  _ "When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again…" _ _ When your womb quickens again _ ," she turned the phrase over and over again in her mind.

Emil and Zali went to draw her a bath. The water was hot, steaming and fragrant. They scented the bath with rose petals, and orange peels. She watched as the fragrant steam rose up off of the water. Her young handmaidens almost stopped her from climbing into the large tub, fearing that it was too hot. But she looked at them, her eyes cool, and calm, and she sank down deep into the water, up to her neck.  _ Fire cannot burn a dragon _ , she thought to herself. Her abdomen was tense and sore. The hot water felt good. Soon, she felt as if she could drift off to sleep, her eyelids were heavy. She was loathe to climb out of the steaming water but she did. Her handmaidens dried her body, adorned her with fragrant oils, and provided her a fresh cloth for her to put between her legs. As she walked into her chamber, she saw that there were fresh bedclothes on her bed, and she climbed in. Her eyes were tired. Her body was tired, and sleep called to her.

Bran

Bran Stark sat at the foot of the wide expanse of the ancient weirwood tree that stood at the heart of the Godswood within Winterfell. The air was cold, and Bran was bundled in a thick fur cloak, his legs swaddled in a thick woolen blanket shielding them from the biting wind. The face of the weirwood tree stared at him, and he stared back at it. Its eyes were the deep red of blood, and they were speaking to him. The eyes had been carved by the children of the forest,in the ancient times. The children of the forest were all gone now, but their Gods were not. They still lived, kept alive by the descendents of the First Men. Bran's eyes traced the five pointed leaves of the tree, the leaves shone bright like a flame, standing out in harsh relief against the ghostly white bark. He touched the tree, his hands finding themselves drawn to the grooves, bumps and curves, and he placed his hands over the face of the weirwood tree. The forest around him began to fade away. He gave in to the greensight.

In the skies above, he watched, as the shadow of a dragon soared over the tops of buildings in a city that he had never seen before. He listened as the screams of men, women and children rang out through the streets. The stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. He watched as the falling debris, and ash, covered the ground like so much snow. Soon, his vision began to change, he began to drift away, and before him he saw the city transform, into its former glory. The buildings were restored, and the ash gave way to paved stones and streets full of vendors, and smallfolk. He made his way up a hill, and in his mind, he thought that it may be Aegon's High hill. If this was true, he thought, then the building before him, was likely the Red keep. Soon, he was inside the walls of the castle itself, and he drifted along as if carried towards a singular destination. As he walked through the halls of pale red stone that made up the castle walls, he looked into a beautifully furnished room along the corridor and saw a pale young man, as beautiful as a maiden, with shimmering silver hair, and eyes the color of lilacs. He was speaking with a dark haired woman, in that bedroom, and the castle windows behind him were alive with the flickering light of oil lamps casting shadows that seemed to dance.

_ "The dragon has three heads _ ," he said, his voice as sharp as Valyrian steel, his body tense and rigid, as he paced back and forth, speaking with the woman that sat before him.

Bran, could feel a sickness in his stomach, threatening to bubble up and rise into his throat, as the visions became too much for him. He heard the whisper of the wind through the leaves of the weirwood trees calling to him. He stood now, in front of a weirwood tree, but the face of the tree looked unfamiliar, he knew that he was not at Winterfell. And after a moment, he seemed to be looking at the scene before him through the eyes of the tree itself. Before him, a beautiful young woman, with dark hair, and chestnut brown eyes stood before a pale young man with silver hair. Their hands were bound with ribbon. They repeated a marriage oath: " _ I am yours and you are mine, from this day until my last day." _ Bran could smell the fragrance of winter roses, mixing soon with the stale aroma of blood and death, and he heard the muffled cry of a babe, as if it had just been born.

He opened his eyes. He sat in Winterfell, and a light snow was beginning to fall. The dusting of snowflakes fell against his cheek, and he began to call for a servant. He didn't know what to make of what he saw. The Three Eyed Raven had shown him the vision in the tower of joy, about Jon Snow, and his aunt, Lyanna.  _ Could this marriage ceremony be a part of that story? _ He had been keeping the secret that Jon was his cousin, and not his brother, for some time now, because he was not supposed to involve himself in matters of the realm, and politics. Bran thought to himself,  _ "Is the city in ashes King's Landing, and if so, was it the past, or was it the future?" _

Donal, his manservant came to fetch him from the Godswood. As they made their way back into the castle, Bran thought to himself, that he needed to speak with Samwell Tarly. It was time. Jon needed to know.

"Donal," he said.

"Yes m'Lord?" he said.

"When we reach my rooms, fetch Maester Wolkan." he said.

"Yes m'Lord." He said, and they made their way to Bran's chamber in silence.

Bran sat alone in his chambers, waiting for Maester Wolkan. He wrote a note for Samwell Tarly on a piece of parchment, and rolled it up securely. A knock came at the door.

"Yes," Bran said.

"You sent for me my Lord?" Maester Wolkan stepped into the room.

"Yes, Maester Wolkan, I have a raven scroll here, to send to Samwell Tarly." he said.

"Right away my Lord. Is there anything else?' he said.

"No. That will be all." he said.

_ "This has something to do with the Dragon Queen," _ he thought to himself. "I just know it.  _ Jon needs to know who he is. It's his destiny." _

Bran hoped that the raven would reach Samwell in time. Jon and Daenerys were already in Dragonstone, he thought to himself, but, Lord Tyrion had not yet left. Bran wondered if he may have to reveal the secret to him as well.  _ The people of King's Landing are in danger. _


	23. The Kingsroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "lone wolf" stalks her prey on the kingsroad.

Arya

Arya took the fastest horse that Sansa could spare her when leaving Winterfell. She paid no mind to the tears forming at the corners of her sister's eyes as they said their goodbyes to each other. She had prepared herself for a long journey. She wore her brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail, and pulled on a pair of soft black leather riding pants. She wore a riding cloak fringed with fur. She had designed it with one shoulder free, so that she could maneuver the reins of her horse, and dual wield her sword, Needle, and her Valyrian steel dagger. She carried a selection of dried meat and dried sausages and hard cheese in her travelling bag, and a small knife. She brought a bedroll, and a warm fur for the cold nights. The horse she rode, a sable colored stallion, had a silky mane as black as onyx, and she called him Balerion. That wasn't his proper name, not really, but he seemed to like it alright. Horses had always taken to her easily. She was a great rider. When she was a young girl, she had always been told that she rode " _ like a northman _ ." She would often smile at this. Riding was one of the few things that she had always done better than Sansa, even when she was a girl.

The first time that she met the red witch, Melisandre, the witch had told her that she would shut many eyes forever. She had been right.  _ Brown eyes, blue eyes, and green eyes _ , the red woman had said. At the time, Arya didn't know what she meant, but now it was clear.  _ I am going to kill the Queen.  _ Arya smiled to herself as she set off towards the South, and back towards the stench and squalor of King's Landing. For a fortnight she rode, trailing the foot soldiers of the Dragon Queen's army. Cersei Lannister was on her list, and she was going to shut Cersei's green eyes forever. In the years, since she had watched her father die on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, her list had grown. As she traveled, she would often recite the list to herself before she fell asleep. Her list had become a prayer-and now she was to give a sacrament to the many-faced-god. She had promised the life of Cersei Lannister to the many-faced-god through whispers night by night as she had traveled from Westeros to Essos and back, and now she would give the many-faced-god what was owed.

_ Valar Morghulis _ . She repeated to herself. Many sacrifices had been stolen from her in the intervening years. Many on her list had died before they ever met the pointy end of her sword, and she didn't intend to let it happen again. Cersei, had been one of the first on the list, and now, she was to be the last.  _ Valar Dohaeris. _

Westeros was suffering. The wars had taken a toll on the land and the people. Arya passed through burned village after burned village. The faces of the people that they passed were angry, tired and hungry. The days seemed to creep on endlessly. Day turned to night, night turned to day, and in between they stopped just long enough to rest their horses, or rest their feet, and eat a piece of dried meat, or a piece of hard cheese. Despite the visible signs of desperation, they had yet to encounter any resistance from the people. The army was intimidating, even without the dragons. " _ The people are too tired to resist, _ " Arya thought. The Dragon Queen didn't even need to bother riding south at all.  _ If she would just tell the people that she would feed them, they would all bend the knee to her without reservation _ , Arya mused.

She passed through mountain ranges, with their stony crests rising towards the sun. She passed through green fields, and farmland, and flat ground that stretched far and wide before her, seemingly endless. She passed through holdfasts, and small villages, and forded narrow rivers with her horse. When she could rest properly, she set up a small tent, and roasted wild game over a campfire.

At night, sometimes, Arya heard the cries of wolves, and occasionally the cries sounded familiar to her.  _ Nymeria _ . Nymeria is out there somewhere, she thought, and sometimes when she dreamt after a long days ride, she dreamt that she was a wolf herself. She prowled through the forest, and hunted for rabbits, and pheasants, and her stomach roiled with hunger. She smelled blood, hot, and metallic that made her mouth water, and she ran with a pack of wolves, her sisters, and brothers- bounding through a forest in the darkness. Sometimes she caught the prey that she chased, and it seemed to Arya that she could taste the blood on her tongue.

After weeks of hard riding, Arya began to smell the stench of a half million people, and she knew that she was close. King's Landing was like a trash heap, filled with people and filth all crammed on top of each other. It was nightfall when she got close enough to see the walls of the city. Outside the walls, she could see the beginnings of ragtag settlements of smallfolk, lit by firelight. The Unsullied and Dothraki set up camp outside the walls of the city, within sight of, but a comfortable distance away from the settlements.

Arya dressed herself in a black hood, with black gloves, and prepared herself for her trek into the city. Preparing to break into the city reminded her of the time when she had to escape from it as a child. She thought back to her dancing master, Syrio Forel. When she had trained with him, she had chased cats through the Red Keep. She wound her way through tunnels, climbing staircases, exploring halls filled with dragon skulls. She got to know the Red Keep very well. These were lessons that she would now use, as she went through the secret tunnels that lay beneath the city as " _ swift as a deer _ ," and as " _ quiet as a shadow _ " to make her way to the Queen. She walked towards the shore, close to the water's edge, where the city refuse emptied out into the sea. She knew a secret tunnel that led near the dungeons, this was going to be her way in.


	24. Many Faced Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lone wolf hunts her prey inside the city walls.

The smell of waste stung Arya’s eyes. She walked carefully over the wet stones, making her way through the tunnel, a scarf tied tightly over her mouth, and her black hood pulled down low. She could be as silent as death when she wanted to be. She felt along the walls of the cave, the smooth stones triggering something in her memory. The tunnels and caverns within spread out in all directions, stretching beneath the castle like the arms of a spider. Soon, Arya began to hear what sounded like scurrying. Where there were rats, there must be food. Where there was food, she thought, she must be close to the dwellings of the townspeople. She walked for miles beneath the city, never encountering another soul. As she moved deeper into the tunnel, the familiarity of the rock formations told her that she was nearing the Red Keep. There were some stones that seemed to protrude from the wall, and as she reached what seemed like a dead end, she touched one curiously. It was loose. She placed her hand on it, cupping her palm around it, and turned it, as hard as she could. As she did this, the wall seemed to open up before her. In front of her eyes, there was a kind of metal stairway that seemed to lead up through a hollow that had been dug deep into the earth. In pitch-black darkness, she followed the feel of cool air, her eyes accustomed to the blackness. She followed the ladder up, up, up into the darkness and then out into the night. 

When Arya got to the end of the ladder, there was a wooden door before her. She lifted it gingerly, and a wind swept through the crevice that chilled her. She peeked through the crevice with one eye, and saw before her an alley. She pulled back the wooden door covering, and pulled herself out of the hole and out into the chilled night air. She covered the hole, quietly. 

She was standing in a quiet alley, within the city. As she turned to get her bearings, she saw before her Aegon’s high hill, and the immense majesty of the Red Keep. Towers, and ramparts fashioned from pale red stone stared down at her, the banners flying Lannister crimson. 

She pulled back her hood. She pushed down the scarf that she wore over her mouth so that it covered her neck. She took the gloves that she had been wearing, and put them into the bag that she wore on her waist. No one here knew her face. No one here knew what she looked like, even when she was here the first time as a small girl. She had been mistaken for a boy by the city guard. She would be safer without the hood. The hood would be more conspicuous within the city walls. 

As she walked through the narrow, cobbled passage and towards the red keep itself, she spotted two Lannister guards. They were talking animatedly about their adventure at one of the whore houses. 

“Shoulda seen the tits on that one…” the blond one said, motioning with his hands animatedly.

Arya continued to approach quietly, she fingered her dagger, beginning to grip it tightly in her hand. She watched as the second guard, the one with darker hair, walked away, and she waited in the shadow of the building that she leaned up against, until he turned a corner out of her sight. The blond Lannister guard was absentmindedly standing only an arms distance away from her now. She could smell him. She smelled the stench of whores on him, and stale ale, and she heard the quiet jangle of his armor. Arya turned the dagger in her hand, slipping it into her sleeve backwards, so that she could slide the handle easily into her palm at a moments notice. 

She was now close enough to hear the breath of the Lannister soldier. She slid the blade down her sleeve now, and into her left hand, and she approached him from behind and at an angle, still imperceptible to him. Quickly, she thrust her dagger upwards, and into his right eye with a sickening wet sound. She heard a gurgle of blood in his throat and a grunt, that she recognized as a psalm to the many faced god. She took the cloth from around her neck, balled it up tightly in one hand, and shoved it into his mouth. She didn’t need to attract any attention, and she wasn’t sure how far away the other soldier had gone on his nightly stroll. The soldier’s body collapsed against her, and he was heavy. She began to drag him, slowly, back into the abandoned alleyway. She laid his body down, near the small door that she had emerged from, and she opened it. Unceremoniously she tossed him down into the darkness, before following him herself descending quietly down the ladder. 

When she reached the bottom of the ladder, she saw his body, twitching slightly on the cavern floor, his open eye, wide and blue, was staring wildly at her. But she knew that it saw nothing. _Valar morghulis._ She whispered into the darkness. She removed his helm, and grabbed him by the hair, pulling the hair carefully away from his ear. She took the dagger into her hand and made an incision behind his right ear, and began to separate his skin from his flesh, carefully. She didn’t want to tear the face. This was gruesome work. After she separated the skin of his face, completely from the flesh, she began to remove the rest of his armor. It was too big for her. But she put it on. The face itself she covered with a poultice that she had made for herself in Maester Wolkan's laboratory, back at Winterfell. It smelled pungently of oils and herbs and she watched as the skin of the face dried in contact with the poultice, becoming like soft leather in her hands. She removed a small blue glass bottle from her bag, placing drops of the clear liquid it contained onto the face. As she did this the face itself seemed to plump up as if alive. She put it onto her own face then, like a mask, and it felt like it was grabbing onto her own skin, and pulsing with life. She touched her cheeks and they felt warm, and plump. She could feel herself growing into the armor which had before swallowed her. She rubbed the skin of the face, near the edges, where she had placed her cuts, touching her ears, and the skin felt smooth, and unblemished, as if it was the skin she was born in. She put the Lannister helm onto her head, to complete her armor.

As silent as a cat, she walked back to the metal ladder, and climbed back up into the night. She closed the wooden covering behind her. She dusted off her armor, and walked towards the Red Keep. Behind her helm, she whispered into the darkness " _Valar Dohaeris_."

A Lannister soldier approached her. “You’re needed in the Red Keep. We’re to receive orders. The Dragon Queen is outside the walls.”

She heard her own voice, deep, and mellifluous, the voice of a man grown, answer back “Lead the way.” 


	25. Histories Written in Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon Queen is at the gates. Inside the Red Keep, the residents contemplate the future and the past.

###  Chapter 25: Histories Written in Blood

Cersei Lannister paced the floor within the Red Keep. The Dragon Queen was outside the city gates. “ _ The silver-haired cunt _ ,” Cersei thought to herself. 

“ _ Lanna, _ ” she said, calling for her handmaiden. 

Her handmaiden was a young thing. She was slight, and pale, with closely cropped dark hair, and grey eyes. 

“ _ Yes, your grace? _ ” She replied.

“Fetch Qyburn.” Cersei’s hands were clasped over her stomach. She was heavily pregnant, and her head continued to ache daily, so that she could hardly concentrate on anything. Lately, she also had sharp pains in her abdomen and a dull ache in her lower back that troubled her. She sat down on her bed, surrounded by pillows, to await Qyburn. Qyburn had been a great help to her. He could do miraculous things. This pregnancy had not gone as smoothly as her others, and she had no Jaime to comfort her. It felt as if she was tempting fate. When she closed her eyes at night, she saw the dwarf, laughing at her. He had cursed her. Maybe she was carrying a foul, misshapen monster like him, like the creature that killed her mother. The thought made her want to laugh. It would be an irony not lost on her. The foul creature haunted her, his shame and perversion hung over her head like a curse.  " _ A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid."  _ She remembered his threats well.  _ Was her joy to turn to ashes in her mouth? Was she carrying her death in her belly?  _ She turned these questions over and over in her mind. She pressed her fingers into her temples, massaging in circles, trying to ease the tension and pain in her head.

Once, when she had been young, and stupid, she had been in love with Rhaegar Targaryen.  _ Who wasn’t in love with him? _ Rhaegar was beautiful. She had sought out a woods witch to seek her future. She wanted to know if she would marry Rhaegar and be Queen. The witch, Maggy had been an ugly thing, squat, and toothless with a face like a frog. She had gone to a small hut in the middle of the forest and met the toothless, old crone. She practiced blood magic. She would tell your fortune for a drop of blood. Cersei remembered the gnarled hands of the witch, and how they felt soft, wet and cold, as she grabbed Cersei’s finger. Her fingertip was pooling with blood and the crone stuck it into her wet, toothless mouth, and tasted her blood. She tasted one drop of blood and told Cersei her future. She had asked the witch if she would marry the King. Rhaegar was to be King, and she hoped upon hopes to be his Queen, and rule by his side. The woman had no good news to tell. She told the young lioness that she and the King would have children, but the number was puzzling. The maegi had said in her croaky old voice that the children would number “ _ Six-and-ten for him, and three for you. _ ” This sounded like madness. She foretold the deaths of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen.  _ Three golden lions _ \---three golden haired beauties, all taken from her before their times. “ _ Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds _ .” She had three children.  _ Three. None survived to adulthood.  _ Now she was here, pregnant again, and every minute of this pregnancy was torture. “ _ Six-and-ten for him, and three for you _ .” Cersei kept repeating in her mind. She lay back on the bed, her eyes watching the bed canopy, and her mind trying desperately to block out the pain. The pain in her back was becoming unbearable. “ _ Three for you,”  _ She kept repeating in her head. _ “Three for you.”  _ What of the fourth? 

She could hear footsteps approaching the door of her chambers. Four Lannister guardsmen with glimmering gilded lion crests on their helms entered her room. Behind them, a man in Maester’s robes, but wearing no chain,  _ Qyburn _ . He could do so much more than that pervert Grand Maester Pycelle. Cersei couldn’t believe that she had ever let that lecher touch her. Even now Cersei could remember Pycelle’s trembling hands slowly touching her thighs, examining her, his eyes betraying more interest than they should in her flesh. He always smelled of pee, and he was too familiar. All of her handmaidens had been afraid of him. 

“ _ Your grace _ ,” Qyburn stepped forward. His hair was more silver than white, and peppered with hints of black. His eyes were shining and blue, and he had the air of a younger man. Though he was thin, and frail, he had a face that reminded you of a kindly uncle. She sensed concern in his eyes as he examined her. She looked towards the far corner of the room, her eyes becoming heavy and she watched the backs of the four guardsmen as their lion crested helms cast shadows on the wall in the torchlight. She had seen her future in a drop of blood, and she meant to defy it. Qyburn’s voice brought her out of her reveries. Beneath her hand she felt the babe within her moving. Maybe the babe sensed her distress. She wanted to soothe him or her. She felt it was a him. But you could never be sure. She rubbed her swollen belly, and she felt Qyburn’s eyes on her. 

“ _ You must rest, your grace. You must _ .” He turned to her handmaidens. “Bring me some dreamwine. Bring me some hot water, and lemon. Be quick about it. Your grace needs her rest.”

Cersei smiled, as she felt her eyelids become heavy. Maybe she was tired. Maybe the  _ Dragon Cunt  _ would come in here and find her, already dead. What did it matter? Everything was turning to ashes anyway. 

“Your grace,” she could hear Qyburn saying. But her eyes were too heavy now, and it sounded like he was far away. 


	26. Valar Dohaeris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya explores Qyburn's laboratory.

###  Chapter 26: Valar Dohaeris 

King’s Landing had changed a lot since the last time that Arya had been inside the walls of the Red Keep. When her father had been Hand of the King, the castle had been full of handmaidens, and courtiers. It had also been full of life. King Robert had still been alive. The whole castle seemed brighter and full of light somehow. Arya stood now, facing the wall in the Queen’s rooms. Her rooms were dark even during the day. There were hardly many people even inside the castle. She was a part of a small group of four guards. The other three guards with her formed a barrier outside the Queen’s room, and they faced the hallway as Qyburn examined the Queen. 

_She is very pregnant._ Arya thought to herself. This was a complication. She had promised the many-faced-god _one_ life. She looked back to see that the Queen was grimacing in pain, her eyes closed. Qyburn looked worried. He was dressed like a Maester, but he wore no Maester’s chain. _Cersei seems to trust him._ She observed. _He can get closer to her than anyone else._

She heard Qyburn send a servant to fetch honey, hot water and lemons. It seemed that there was nothing that he could do for the Queen, to ease her pain, save for letting her sleep. 

“Guard,” he addressed them now. You three stay here. He pointed at Arya now, his blue eyes looked tired, his face was wan, and his grey Maester’s robe, seemed to hang off of him shabbily like excess skin.

_“Follow me,_ ” he said to Arya. She followed him closely as they walked through the labyrinthine halls of red stone, and down into what appeared to be Qyburn’s laboratory. It seemed to be the same one that Maester Pycelle formerly occupied. Like much of the castle, it too seemed darker, and quieter than before. Everywhere that Arya went within the Red Keep, the halls felt like they were filled with ghosts. 

“Stand by the door,” he told her, without even glancing back. She stood inside the laboratory, just by the door watching him. She lifted her lion helm, her eyes scanning the room. The laboratory was well stocked. The shelves were filled with bottles of potions and tinctures. 

“You must be new to the capitol,” Qyburn spoke to her now. 

She looked at him, “Not new...exactly. ”

“Hmm...well,” He said curiously. “I’ve never seen your face here before?” 

“I usually patrol the area outside the keep.” Arya caressed the handle of her dagger. 

“Here,” he said, thrusting several bottles towards her. “Hold these.” She grabbed them, and immediately put them down on a nearby table. 

_He’s mixing up some kind of potion for the queen._ Arya thought, her eyes still scanning the shelves. She watched as Qyburn flitted from shelf to shelf, grabbing ingredients from his stores. Behind Qyburn the shelf was filled with glass jars of dried herbs, and semi-translucent glass bottles filled with liquids and sealed with stoppers and wax. One, in a neat handwriting was labelled “Tears of Lys.” She knew this poison well. She had made it herself in Braavos, while studying with the faceless men. The bottle looked to be filled with water, the Tears of Lys were clear and deadly. 

She took her helmet off completely now, and sat it down on the table. Qyburn had his back turned towards her. She grasped the dagger that hung at her hip and walked silently behind Qyburn, pulling the red cloak from her shoulders. As quick as a cat, she grabbed him from behind, deftly and silently slicing his throat. He barely made a sound. She shoved the cloak into his mouth, and wrapped the remainder of it around his throat to slow the bleeding. She pushed a heavy chair up against the door, and began to strip off her armor. Once she had fully removed the armor, she put it haphazardly into a trunk that sat at the center of the laboratory. She stripped Qyburn of his Maester’s robe and began the process of removing his face. 

Once again, she started the process by making a small incision behind his ears, and then she endeavored to slowly and carefully separate his skin from his flesh. She reached into the pouch that she had stowed beneath her overly large armor and removed the poultice so that she could prepare the face for her sacrifice to the many-faced-god. She rubbed the poultice of herbs onto the skin, feeling it dry in her hands. She removed the face of the soldier from her own now, slicing it carefully at the edges, her own blood loosening the skin of the face. She then took it and placed it into the bag that she wore around her waist. She took out the small, blue bottle of clear liquid from the bag, and placed a few drops of it onto the skin that she had removed from Qyburns’ face, and watched as it came back to life. She slipped on the robe that he had been wearing, and closed her eyes. _Valar morghulis._ She whispered into the dimly lit room, as she slipped Qyburn’s face onto her own.

She grabbed a bottle of Sweetsleep from the shelf behind her. Looking behind her, to check the state of the laboratory, she pushed the chair away from the door, and walked out, closing the laboratory door behind her carefully. Purposefully, she walked back up to Cersei’s apartments, stopping in her solar, to call for the maids to bring more hot water. The Queen was fidgeting now, on a mountain of pillows. 

“Qyburn,” she called out.

“Yes, Your grace,” Arya heard herself say. “I’m making you a tea. This should help you sleep.”

Arya took three pinches of sweetsleep from the jar, and tossed them into the silver goblet. She slid the bottle up her sleeve. She placed the lemon and honey onto the table, rolling the lemon against the table with the palm of her hand. Once the servant brought the jug of hot water to her, she poured the steaming liquid into the goblet. She took the small knife that lay on the table and cut the lemon into slices, taking care to squeeze some into the water before pouring in a few spoonfuls of honey. 

The handmaiden stood by the Queen’s bed, watching as she writhed in pain. Arya called out to her, “What’s your name child?” She heard Qyburn’s voice, from her mouth, and it sounded strange to her ears. 

“Lanna, Maester,” she said.

“I’m no Maester child. Come, the Queen is in pain, give her this tea.” She thrust the goblet towards the girl. 

“Yes...Mae...Yes, Lord…” she stumbled.

“Yes. Yes. Your grace needs her rest.” With that, Arya walked from the room, and through the castle. She wondered if she should wait, to watch the Queen drink the potion, but she didn’t want to take the risk of someone finding Qyburn’s body before she had the chance to leave the castle. 

As she walked down the hallway, looking at the Lannister crimson banners, she smiled, before quietly whispering “Valar Dohaeris.” 


	27. Only Death Can Pay For Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys reaches King's Landing. Jon flies to Dragonstone and has a conversation with Tyrion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My updates may be slightly more sporadic as the semester has started back. Interactions spur me on, so I look forward to your comments.

###  **Daenerys**

“ _The beggar Queen_ ” they called her. When she was a girl, her brother had sold the last of her family’s treasures just to house and clothe them as they moved from place to place. Before she was sold to Khal Drogo, even her mother’s crown had been sold. Her brother would do anything to take back the seven kingdoms. When he had sold everything else, she was the last thing to be sold. She was to pay for an army to help him cross the Narrow Sea. She had married a grown man as a young girl of only ten and four. She had given birth to a boy, still born, and walked through deserts, her feet bare and bloody, losing the bulk of her khalasar. She had walked through the red waste, lean, and starving, and eaten her own horses just to survive. She had watched the deaths of those whom she loved. Her family had everything stripped from them. The Usurper and his dogs had taken the throne. Her mother had fled to Dragonstone with her as a babe in her belly. She had spent her childhood wandering Essos as a pauper, depending on the kindness of strangers and Targaryen loyalists. Westeros was her birthright, but it was a stranger to her. Now she was a stranger in a strange place, and the place that she called “home” called her “outsider,” and “foreign queen.” She was tired of trying to make Westeros love her. If they could not give her love, then she would rule over them with fear.

The people running along the cobbled streets below looked like ants. The air was thick with smoke and ash, and she could feel it filling up her lungs. Sweat soaked through her clothes and they clung to her form almost like a second skin and she could feel a cool breeze around her as she flew through the clouds. Drogon flapped his wings hard and fast, and his body vibrated with power and fury. She squeezed her thighs together, and he knew that she wanted him to go straight, straight towards the Red Keep. Below her, Daenerys could see swarms of people, running and scrambling. They were afraid. She heard their screams and as she listened to their cries, the sound pushed her onwards, towards the Red Keep, towards where Cersei slept. She was drawn to the seat of her ancestral power. As she approached the walls of the castle that her family had built, the home that had been stolen from her, all that she saw was retribution. She wanted to rip it down stone by stone. She wanted it to fall, and she wanted to watch as it happened. As she heard the anguished screams of the people of King’s Landing, all that she could hear echoing in her head were the screams of the Maegi. The sound filled her ears, and vibrated inside her, like an echo inside her head. She had trusted the maegi Mirri Maz Duur. She paid the price for her trust, as the maegi had taken the life of her child, and the man that she loved. When Daenerys ordered her to be bound to the funeral pyre, the obstinate woman had boasted to Daenerys that she would not die screaming.

_But she was a liar_.

She did die screaming, and her screams sounded like a song to Dany’s ears’. Daenerys smiled to herself, as Drogon’s wings flapped hard against the wind, “ _yes, it was a song_ .” When the witch screamed out her pain, It was a song for Rhaego, a song for Khal Drogo and a sacrifice to bring her children into the world. Now the screams below would be a sacrifice to bring about the new world, the world that she intended to make. She would break the wheel, as she had promised. She remembered what she had been told by the witch, when she begged for Khal Drogo’s life, _her moon and stars_ . The witch had coldly told her that “ _Only death can pay for life_.” She had paid the price, and she would have what she sought. Beneath her, the heat from the melting stones of the red keep warmed her face. She watched as the red stones came tumbling to the ground, and the ants below her scurried like animals looking for shelter. Drogon swooped lower, and she felt him hot and powerful between her thighs, his body like pure living flame as he surged closer and closer to the small forms before them. 

“Dracarys!” She heard herself say. _Only death can pay for life._

_King’s Landing had no love for her. She had no love for it._ _It was a cesspit, and the fire was cleansing it._ Fire purified. _It is known._

“Dracarys!” She heard herself say again. She watched as the swirls and puffs of smoke rose into the air around her. She could feel Drogon’s body vibrating below her as he hissed before letting out a large gout of flame. The building in front of her came tumbling down, and the people below screamed, and wailed and begged for the gods to have mercy on them. The smell of burnt flesh rose into the air. Soon, their screams began to sound muffled to her as she rode against the wind, and all that she could hear was the wind. 

Behind her, through the screams and the smoke, she could see a flash of green, _Rhaegal_. Jon Snow was flying towards her, he was yelling something, but she couldn’t hear him. She didn’t want to hear him. She couldn’t hear anything but the screams, and the wind, and the sound of Drogon’s wings flapping. 

“Dany STOP!” Jon called out to her. He didn’t understand. He _couldn’t_ understand. She squeezed her thighs together and leaned her body down against Drogon, feeling his warmth. He took her cue and accelerated towards the bell tower. As they approached, the people below her came into view, running, screaming, and hiding in alleyways and corridors. The bell was ringing out through the city square. _The Queen was dead. Long live the Queen_. 

Cersei was dead. Finally she had done it. She had retaken her kingdom. She was Queen. She was Queen of Westeros, and she would rule. She was Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, and she was home. She was going to _make_ this her home. She had paid for it, with fire and blood. _Only death can pay for life._

Rhaegal was beside her now. He was snarling at his brother. Drogon turned to look at him. 

“Dany!” Jon’s voice screamed out hoarsely. “Stop this madness!” He flew closer to her, and Rhaegal reached out with his legs towards his brother, striking him. Drogon began to turn his body, and Daenerys could feel herself losing her grip on his scales. 

“Dany!” Jon cried out again, and Drogon twisted his body violently, as his brother bit him at the base of his tail. He tried to shake Rhaegal off of him, and Dany felt her hands slipping, slipping. She fell. 

She was falling, and she had nothing to hold on to. The air rushed around her. There was nothing for her to grab. There was nothing for her to hold on to. Her heart raced inside her chest. The cold air rushed around her body, and she could see the ground getting closer and closer to her. Through the wind, she heard Jon’s voice. Through the smoke, she saw a flash of green, and soon she felt two strong arms wrapped around her waist. She was breathless and tired, and Jon held her tightly. He was pulling her onto Rhaegal. She lay across Rhaegal’s body, limply, staring down at the ground. She closed her eyes; her body and her mind were tired. As she began to drift away, she saw Drogon flying. He was hurt. He needed to heal, and he was flying in the direction of Dragonstone. She understood. She could see the Unsullied below, the Lannister soldiers had surrendered. Grey Worm, _Torgo Nudho,_ was marching his men into the castle, he was taking the throne to hold for her. She had done it. She could rest now. The wind had been knocked out of her when Jon caught her, and she felt drained. Her eyelids felt heavy, and soon she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep on Rhaegal’s back. 

* * *

**Dragonstone**

The moonlight shimmered on the water as Jon approached the island of Dragonstone. Daenerys lay passed out across Rhaegal’s back. He could see in the distance, lit by the moon, the dragon shaped tower Windwyrm. He squeezed his legs together, and lightly tugged on the scales that he held tightly in his hands, and Rhaegal began to descend. He landed gently, clawing at the volcanic stones beneath his feet before coming to a complete stop. Two Unsullied guards came towards him. 

“Jon Snow,” the soldier, Trash Rat, said. “Have we won?” 

Jon wasn’t sure. Yes, they had taken the iron throne, but had they won? He nodded a “Yes.” 

“Our Queen has had an accident. She needs to be taken to her room. Is Sam here?”

“Yes Jon Snow,” said another of the men, Blue Flea. 

“She needs a Maester.” Jon said. He picked her up into his arms, her body seemed small and frail. Yet, she had caused so much destruction. 

He saw Tyrion Lannister walking towards him. When the dwarf reached him, he looked at him expectantly, his green eyes searching for something, Jon knew not what.

“Lord Tyrion,” he said.

“Jon Snow,” Tyrion nodded at him. “What news? I see that our Queen is not well.”

“Yes. Not well. We need to talk.” Jon put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, and he watched as Blue Flea and Trash Rat carried Daenerys back into the castle. 

“She killed innocent people Tyrion. She burned the city, razed it to the ground. Before I knew what was happening, as I caught up with her, she was just indiscriminately burning people. I watched people screaming, running on fire. I watched her hunt them down, even as they tried to hide. It was as if she was mad.”

Tyrion fell silent. For once, the dwarf was speechless, he only looked at Jon, wide eyed and mute. 

“Have you spoken to her? Did she give you any reason...any?

Jon interrupted, “There is no reason to do something like this. Tyrion, we were winning this war. It was as if she was gone. I called out to her. I begged her to stop. She kept flying, she kept burning, and her eyes were vacant, and distant. I had to knock her off of Drogon’s back.”

“I...I don’t know what to say. What do you want to do?”

“What do _I_ want to do? You are Hand of the Queen. The people are already afraid of her, now they will not follow her. She must step down.”

“This is treason.”

“Is it? You didn’t see what I saw. You didn’t watch what I watched. I flew across the city trying to stop her. She was determined. It was like she was determined to kill every single person in King’s Landing.” 

“They’ve taken her to her chambers now. When she awakens, we need to discuss our next steps,” Tyrion said. Jon could hear the fear in his voice. 

“Have you seen any indication that she could do something like this...prior to today?” He felt like he was pleading for reason. The Dany that he knew--that he loved--- was tough, and strong, but kind. She didn’t burn children to death.

“I have not. I mean,” Tyrion ran his hands through his hair, “I know that she can be ruthless, and tough, but she is not unnecessarily cruel.”

“I need to know _why_.” Jon said. 

“I feel the same...and...what of my sister.” Tyrion’s eyes met Jon’s.

“Cersei is dead. They rang the bells.” Jon thought he almost saw something like sadness in Tyrion’s eyes. “We have won...but at what price?”

Tyrion said, his voice almost a whisper. “I have often heard it said that the shadowbinders in Asshai have a saying…only death can pay for life.”

“If that is true, what kind of life have we bought?” Jon asked.

“That remains to be seen,” Tyrion said, and they walked towards the castle, the stone dragons watching over them like silent sentinels. 


	28. Both Sides of the Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Tyrion and Varys struggle with what to do about Daenerys. Bran struggles with his identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my heart sing.

### Chapter 28: Both Sides of the Coin

Dragonstone

The halls of Dragonstone were cavernous. Each step Tyrion took down the long, ornate hallway had an echo to it. The candlelight did strange things to the carved dragons that adorned the walls. The magic hummed in these hallways; the magic of Old Valyria, and the Targaryen’s loomed large in both Tyrion's line of sight and his mind. He replayed Jon’s words again in his head. “ _It was like she was determined to kill every single person in King’s Landing.”_ The pleading, the naked emotion behind Jon’s grey eyes is a sight that he would not soon forget. In all the time that he had known Daenerys Targaryen he had never thought her needlessly cruel. She was ruthless, yes. But cruel, no. Her heart had always seemed to be just beneath the surface, no matter how much she projected hardness and cool detachment. He could not reconcile the Queen he served, with the “Mad Queen” that people were telling him she had become. But then, he had not been there. He had not gone to King’s Landing. She had bid him to stay behind. His wife’s prayers were answered. He was spared the horror of watching a city that he both loved and hated burn to the ground.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon called to him from the doorway of the Chamber of the Painted Table. Daenerys had still not left her bed. It had been three days since the attack on King’s Landing, and she was not only still abed, but talking gibberish, her eyes a dull lavender as she mumbled about the “dragon” having “three heads,” and called out for her brother Rhaegar. She had never even known Rhaegar. He had died before she was born. As he sat by her bedside she would twist and turn in her coverlets murmuring about Rhaego, and her “moon and stars” and she only woke to drink honey water. It was as if she was in some sort of waking dream. 

Tyrion walked into the room and it was filled with a heavy silence. They had to pick up the pieces from this massacre, while Daenerys Targaryen wavered in between states of consciousness, dancing with ghosts. The painted table took up a large part of the room, and on it there was a large carved and painted map of Westeros, as it was during Aegon’s conquest. Jon, Davos, and Samwell Tarly, and Lord Varys sat along the perimeter of the table, looking at him expectantly. All of them looked as if they’d aged fifty years in the last three days. Tyrion’s eyes traced across the valleys, mountains, and rivers of the painted table, noting that it had no borders. The “seven kingdoms” was a mummers farce, Aegon meant to rule it all, as one realm. Daenery’s meant to break the wheel. Maybe all of it amounts to nothing but murder, maybe that’s what she realized as she flew across the clouds on Drogon’s back. 

“Lord Tyrion, we have to talk about the state of the realm,” Varys said. He looked not only tired around his eyes, but his voice sounded thin and tired. He had backed the wrong queen, the wrong ruler, again. They all had.

“Do we?” Tyrion raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Here I thought we were all gathered for my name day celebration.” He pulled out a chair, and seated himself, with some trouble, at the painted table. He pulled the flagon of wine that sat near the corner of the table toward himself, and poured himself a glass. It smelled fruity, pungent and spicy. He took a sip, and felt it warm his chest as it went down.

Jon was staring into the hearth. Tyrion wondered if he wanted some answers from the Lord of Light. Finally with a heavy sigh, Jon spoke, “Daenerys must step down. She is not well. I don’t know what’s happened to her mind. It’s like she’s gone.”

Varys began to fiddle idly with the ring on his pinky, twisting it as he glanced from person to person in the room, and before saying, “I must speak plainly, I served the Mad King. _Even he_ never did anything as cruel as this. She killed tens of thousands of people. The Lannister soldiers had surrendered. This will not be easily forgotten. It will never be forgiven. The smallfolk will not serve Daenerys Targaryen. If we don’t do something soon, we will have an uprising on our hands.”

“That’s the last thing that we need,” Tyrion said. “We are already low on food stores, due to Winter. Travelling here, we saw the destruction from the battles of the Last War, most namely the Field of Fire. Much of the country is still ravaged by the destruction caused during the War of the Five Kings. This country has had enough of war and uprisings to last all of our lifetimes.”

Samwell Tarly squirmed in his chair, as if he couldn’t get comfortable. “What if we had someone better? Someone with a stronger claim---someone kind, and just---and honorable.”

“Are you planning to raise Rhaegar Targaryen from the dead?” Tyrion smiled, but there was a darkness in his eyes.

“Well,” Sam stammered, “somewhat.”

Tyrion choked on his wine. “Pardon me, but...what?”

“Well…,” Sam continued, “I have come across some information from the Citadel. Rhaegar didn’t kidnap the Lady Lyanna Stark. They were married, in Dorne. He had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled by the High Septon. I found it in the Septon’s diary at the Citadel.”

“This is an interesting bit of history, but how does that help us exactly.” Tyrion was a student of history, of course, but even he knew that this wasn’t the time for historical marginalia. 

“Well,” Sam took a deep breath, “they had a son. He still lives. His name is Aegon Targaryen.”

“Aegon’s brains were dashed against the wall by the Mountain, one of my fathers hired dogs, and one of my noble father’s many contributions to the fate of the realm.” Tyrion smiled darkly at his own wit. 

“Yes,” Sam continued, “but he was not the _only_ Aegon Targaryen. Rhaegar found a prophecy about the Prince Who Was Promised, and he was convinced that his child was to be this person. Elia could not give him another child, so he annulled their marriage, and he got a child on someone else---Lyanna Stark.”

“I’ve never heard anything about another Stark child, especially not one named Aegon.” Tyrion said, taking another sip of wine. 

“Well, no,” Samwell sputtered, “Lyanna died in childbirth. Eddard Stark made a promise to his sister, to raise the boy as his own. He took him home, as his own natural child, and named him after a man he respected and admired Jon Arryn, with the customary bastard name for the North...”

“Snow...Jon...Snow,” Tyrion fell back against his chair. “Who else knows this?” 

“Right now? Just us, and Bran Stark. He saw the wedding of Rhaegar and Lyanna in one of his visions.”

“How do we know that the realm will accept any Targaryen ruler?” Varys said warily. 

“Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.” Tyrion said, his eyes downcast. He had picked the wrong side of the coin. _But how would he fix it?_

“I feel that our conversation has gone far afield,” Tyrion sat up straight in his chair, taking another sip of wine for fortification. “ _What are we to do about our Queen?_ ” 

Jon spoke, “We could go into exile. We could travel back to Essos. The people loved her there.” He continued to look into the hearth, not meeting anyone’s gaze.

“We...what do you mean “we”? You’re the rightful heir to the Iron Throne...if it still exists, and the Seven Kingdoms.” Tyrion said. 

“I don’t want it. I only want her. I love her.” He looked into Tyrion’s eyes. “Take care of my sister.” 

“Of course,” He stood from his chair, walking over to Jon. He reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to go into exile.”

“But I do,” Jon continued, “You’re right. They won’t accept any Targaryen ruler.”

“This is all well and good. I’m glad that you love her. But she is a monster. She is a murderer. She must be punished.” Varys had an edge of steel to his voice.

“She is being punished. She is being exiled AGAIN, from the only home that she ever wanted. I won’t take from her the only thing that she ever wanted in her life. I won’t. I never wanted it. I won’t have it. She can’t have it. We must leave Westeros.” Jon took a deep breath, and then he seemed to crumple. He looked like a small boy now to Tyrion, as he watched him leaning down, his elbows propped on his knees, and both of his hands covering his face, as if to block out the world.

“Varys,” Tyrion turned his attention to the eunuch. “Let it go. Are you worried about the fate of the realm, or punishment? You’ve done many things that deserve punishment, yet here you are.”

“I’ve never killed tens of thousands of people.” Varys said.

“That’s a lie. You worked with my father, and helped to destabilize the whole of Westeros. You were on the council when the Red Wedding was planned, and tens of thousands of people died in those conflicts. Your hands aren’t clean. None of our hands are clean. Jon is the only honorable man here.” He patted Jon on the shoulder. 

“We know what side his coin is on.” Jon looked up at Tyrion, and their eyes met for a moment, and he saw something there like recognition. 

“I’m not. My sister always said you were a good man.” Jon looked around the room. “We need to set up a ruling council. I will take the throne for a short time, and appoint a ruler in my stead. Then Daenerys and I, and her armies shall depart for Essos.”

“It’s the best plan we have right now.” Tyrion said.

“What will we tell the people---the people of Westeros---” Varys said, looking at both Jon and Tyrion.

“The truth.” Jon said plainly.

“The truth. A wise woman once told me that sometimes the strongest thing that we can do, is to look the truth in the face.”

#### Winterfell

Bran Stark sat alone in his chambers. The fire in the hearth crackled and popped behind him, and it felt warm against his back. The castle was a lot quieter now, that most of the soldiers had marched South with Jon. He had been having troubling dreams for the past three nights. When he was awake, the greensight would overtake him. Always the same vision “the dragon has three heads,” and sometimes he would be greeted by the grey stone walls of Winterfell and still smell the smoke in his clothing from the fires in his visions. He saw King’s Landing burning. He didn’t want to scare Sansa. He knew that she was worried about Lord Tyrion. He wanted to tell Sansa that Tyrion was alright. He didn’t go to King’s Landing. But he was the “Three-Eyed Raven” and he wasn’t supposed to meddle in human affairs, especially not politics. But maybe _he had already broken that rule_. He had sent a raven to Samwell Tarly. Even now, he knew that Samwell Tarly was telling Lord Tyrion, Varys, Davos and Jon about his true parentage. He also knew that Jon would refuse the throne. He loved Daenerys. She was to be the mother of his child. She might already be carrying his babe. He knew that she was having dragon dreams, and dreaming of the child that she lost. 

“Bran,” Sansa knocked tentatively on his door. 

“Yes. Come in.” he said. He spread his furs out, across his legs. A chill had crept in his room, and his fire was starting to die.

“You need someone to tend your fire Bran. Why didn’t you call for someone.” 

“I was thinking.” He said.

“Thinking,” Sansa smiled but he saw worry behind her blue eyes. “Thinking about?”

“Jon. Arya. Tyrion. The war. You.” He fought hard to keep his emotions in check. He was still new to being the three eyed Raven. He felt like he was always making mistakes. 

“Me? “Sansa sat down on his bed. She spread out her skirts neatly, smoothing them with her hands nervously.

“Yes. You. I know that you worry.” He watched her.

“I worry about you. I worry about our family.”

“You worry about Tyrion.” Bran said.

“He is my family too now.”

“I know. I don’t want you to worry.” He said watching her face. She looked so much like his mother. _He would never see his mother again_ , except in his visions.

“Are you hungry Bran?”

“Not really. I’m not anything.”

“I’ll have the maidservant bring up some bread and jam for you.” Sansa said, and she stood now. She ruffled her fingers through Bran’s hair. 

He didn’t know what to do when she showed him these tendernesses. He was not Bran Stark anymore, not really. But he was. Something about the way she ruffled his hair reminded him of his mother. He began to feel sick to his stomach. He felt like something was tearing at him, pulling him, right at his navel, grabbing him and pulling him forward. He let the greensight overtake him.


	29. Mhysa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran has a vision, and a calling. Daenerys confronts her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My updates are going to be more sporadic because the semester has begun in earnest. But I am committed to this story. 
> 
> Please leave comments. I love the interaction.

####  **Winterfell**

The first thing that Bran heard was the sound of leaves crunching beneath his feet. He walked through the Winterfell courtyards, as a light snow fell. Above the courtyard, he saw his father, and his mother. They were watching from above. Beyond them, the sky was a deep blue, as blue as his mother’s eyes. Bran thought that they were the blue of Tully eyes, just like Sansa’s. _He didn’t have the Tully eyes_ ; he had his father’s grey eyes; the furtive grey eyes of the Quiet Wolf, like the sky after a storm. Sansa and Robb always had the Tully look---The look of his Lady mother. _His mother_. There she was above him now laughing, and talking. Her hand was placed gently on his father’s chest, as if to steady herself, as if she were laughing so heartily that she might fall over if she did not hold on to him for balance. They always shared small moments like that. 

She began walking now, and Bran followed her. She was walking back to the castle. Every now and again she would idly pat her stomach. As Bran walked through the corridors of Winterfell he noticed that he didn’t see any children wandering about. His mother looked so young. She was walking now into the large rooms that she shared with his Lord father. She smoothed her skirts, and sat down on a richly embroidered chair, plump with goosefeathers. She pulled out a piece of her knitting, and began to work on something that looked a lot like hat for a baby. _Was she with child?_ A young boy, no more than three, ran into the room, he had thick reddish brown hair, and he came toddling towards his mother, tugging at her skirts . _“Robb!”_ She said, and she put down her knitting. She scooped him up into her arms, kissing his fat, pink cheeks. “Where is your nurse?” She said in a sing-song voice. “ _Roslyn_ ,” she called out, “Come and get Robb, he seems to have escaped you.” She kissed him again, smoothing out his hair. A young woman with dark hair, and a plain grey woolen dress appeared at the doorway. 

“Pardon me m’lady, he’s a quick one.” She cuddled Robb up into her arms, gently, and took him down the corridor. Bran watched his mother still, as she sat there in her rooms alone. She rubbed her stomach idly, and for a moment he thought that she looked at him, directly in his eyes, and her eyes made him think of Sansa. He could almost hear Sansa’s voice.

“Bran!” There was a knock on the door. “Bran!” He could feel his mother’s face slipping away from his vision. _He would never see his mother again except in these visions._ Bran sat up in bed. Sansa was banging hard on his bedroom door. 

“Yes, what is it?” He replied, and his voice sounded foreign to him.

“There’s been a raven. We have a raven from King’s Landing.”

“Yes,” he called to her, “Sansa, open the door.” She walked into his room, and took a seat at the corner of his bed, near his feet. 

“What does it say?” He looked at her, waiting.

“The city is burning. Tyrion told me that I could trust her, but she burnt the city.”

“Yes, what else?”

“What do you mean what else? Did you hear me? She burnt the city---to the ground---killed innocent people---and Tyrion told me to trust her---”

“Sansa...what else?” Bran stared at her, looking deep into her eyes, waiting for her to say it.

“Jon is King. He is setting up a ruling council…”

“And he has asked me to come to King’s Landing.”

“Yes,” Sansa looked down at her hands now, turning the raven scroll between her fingertips. “He’s asked for you.”

“But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell…” He watched her face.

“Yes.” She reached out her hand, and caressed his cheek. “Are you going to go?”

“I must.” 

“But do you want to?” She watched his face carefully.

“It doesn’t matter what I want Sansa. You have to let me go. You have enough to think of now.”

A blush colored Sansa’s cheeks. 

“Have you told Tyrion?” Bran waited for her answer.

“No. He doesn’t know. I’ve only just found out...Maester Wolkan tells me it’s still early yet.”

“Don’t worry Sansa. I hate it when you worry.” She grabbed Bran and hugged him hard. He wanted to hug her back, but he felt paralyzed by her show of emotion, so he just surrendered himself to her embrace.

“Send me Maester Wolkan. I need to send Jon a reply.” 

####  **Dragonstone**

Viserys stood frozen in a scream, molten gold streamed down his face, coating and cauterizing the skin as it went, running into his mouth, molding itself to his head. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud. _Her brother_ . Her _protector_ . But he was no such thing. He died. He died with a scream frozen in his throat. He threatened to harm her child, to cut it from her stomach. He was a fool. He was cruel. He was no dragon. _Fire cannot burn a dragon._ How she had feared him. But he was nothing. Daenerys watched as he fell to the ground, a joke of a man, a mummer’s dragon, and knew then that she would rule. Her _moon and stars_ had given Viserys the only crown he was fit to wear, and he had earned it. 

_The dragon has three heads._

_He was no dragon._

She stood now in the temple of the Dosh Khaleen. She was surrounded by her people, the people she would one day come to rule. Her hands and arms were covered in a thick, dark sheen of horse blood. She could still taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. She could still feel it in her belly. _Her son. She would have a son._ She had eaten the horse heart. A promise had been given. Now it would be fulfilled. _The dragon was inside her._ This time, no witch would take away what was hers. No one would. She had paid the price. _Viserion._ A life for a life. _Only death can pay for life_ . _She had paid._

***

She had fallen. That is the one thing that Daenerys was sure of. She had fallen. She had fallen and he had caught her. He would always catch her. _Jon Snow._ He loved her. She loved him. They would rule together. She saw the right of it now. They could rule _together._ She did not know how long she had been asleep. She looked around the room now, and saw that there was a chair facing her bed. No one sat there now. But someone had been there. She had felt their presence. There was still an indentation in the pillow that sat atop the chair. Maybe they had not been gone for long. She tried to move. Her body felt weak. _When was the last time she had eaten?_ She wondered. She tried to move her legs and saw only a slight ripple in the bedclothes. She wanted to cry out, but her mouth felt so dry. What would she even say? 

“Missandei! Missandei!” She screamed. 

She could hear a small chorus of feet running towards her door. The door opened, and in walked Missandei of Naath, Jon, and Tyrion. 

“Your grace,” Missandei said, “you have to rest. Don’t strain yourself.” She stepped back and leaned against the wall, as if for support. Grey Worm soon appeared in the doorway. He smiled as he saw that Daenerys was awake. 

Jon stood still, his eyes wet, and he watched her, his eyes never leaving her face. 

Tyrion stood before her, his eyes surveying her, “How do you feel?” He asked. 

“Weak, and...hungry.” She said.

“Well, you’ve been asleep for about a week. All you’ve had in that time is honey and water. You may want to start with something simple to eat.” 

She watched as he called for a servant, and when the servant arrived, Tyrion ordered them to bring her bread, and wine. 

He took a seat on the chair that sat before her, and Jon walked over to the bed, and sat next to her, placing his hand on her leg. He looked into her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Dany,” “what do you remember?”

“I fell.” She said. “I fell off of Drogon’s back, and I woke up here.”

Jon rubbed her leg, idly, as he spoke, “What do you remember before that?”

“We were outside the city gates,” she said, “I saw the Red Keep, and I urged Drogon on towards it. The Lannister soldiers fired arrows at us, and the Scorpion almost clipped Drogon’s right wing. I was able to evade the Scorpion and I remember feeling the rage as I looked at the Red Keep. I flew towards the Red Keep, where Cersei slept. I wanted to be rid of her forever.”

“Do you remember anything else?” Jon asked. 

The servant appeared with a platter of bread, and a flagon of wine. Tyrion waved them towards the table that sat to the left of her bed. 

“Yes, thank you, Lyara. That will be all.” He said to her. 

“Your grace, I don’t want to alarm you, as you are still weakened, but once you have eaten, we need to discuss what exactly you remember about the battle in King’s Landing.” Tyrion said, his brows furrowed. 

_Burn them all._ Daenerys heard a whisper, almost like the voice of a shadow. _Burn….them...all._ She looked into the darkness for phantoms, but she saw none. She saw only the worried faces of her advisers and friends. 

_Burn._

_Them._

_All._

The voice whispered in her ear. She closed her eyes, and she could feel herself falling back into a cloud of smoke. She felt the heat of fire against the side of her face, and felt the heat of Drogon, like living breathing flame, beneath her.

Burn.

Them.

All.

She was flying through the clouds, her black wings cutting through the wind like a knife through butter, and the cool air whipping around her. She was a dragon. _Fire cannot kill a dragon_. Beneath her a sea of flesh wailed and cried, hands outstretched and covered in blood and ash. She was saving them. She saved them from themselves. She kissed them with flames. She kissed them and they were reborn in the service of the realm. She watched as they danced in the flames, spinning, flickering and warming her face like kindling. They held out their flaming hands to her, a mass of flaming hands, and shouted with one voice “Mhysa! Mhysa!”


	30. The Dragon Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys remembers her past. Arya thinks about her future. The aftermath of the war continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a struggle. I really had trouble writing this chapter. I had bigger intentions for it, but I wanted to get something out, and I will just have to push some of those ideas into the next installment. 
> 
> Class is in session and kicking my butt. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the update.

## The Dragon Remembers

* * *

Dragonstone 

Beyond the walls of her tent, Daenerys was vaguely aware of the sound of hooves, rhythmically echoing in the distance. Her khalasar, was celebrating; her son would rule them one day. Her son, Rhaego, _“the stallion who mounts the world”_ would burn cities to the ground, and take back what belonged to them. This is what the crones had foretold. She hummed softly as she walked out of her tent. She wiggled her toes as the soles of her feet met the ground outside, and felt the warm sand slip between her toes. As she looked out across the clusters of people that sat before her, she inhaled a deep breath of the warm air. The air was alive with the smell of roasted meat and pungent spices. Across the camp a large fire burned in the firepit, and she could see her Khal. He was looking at her now, his almond eyes alight with the orange glow of the flames. He was sitting among his blood riders. Dany could hear as he talked, and laughed, and she felt a warm glow building within her as she heard the low gutteral sounds of his speech in the distance. The deep melodic laughter shared between him and his blood riders was punctuated by the sound of the bells that adorned his braid tinkling softly as he shook his head with laughter. He looked out towards her, and when he saw her approaching she thought that she saw the faintest glimmer of a smile touch his lips. His dark brown eyes shimmered in the moonlight, and his skin was slick with sweat from the heat of the flames. He opened his mouth to speak. 

“Dany!” _But that was not his voice_ . “Dany!” She felt strong hands caress her face. As she focused her eyes, she saw two deep grey eyes looking back at her. _Jon Snow._ Her head was aching. Jon was sitting at the corner of her bed. His eyes searched her face for something and she wasn’t sure that she could give him whatever it was that he wanted. 

“Dany,” his voice sounded rough against her ears. He reached out to touch her face, and he smelled like leather. He knelt down on one knee, and began to stroke her face. He ran his fingers through her silvery hair, and she felt his fingers caressing her scalp and for a moment it seemed to ease the pain in her head. 

“Dany, how are you feeling?” He said.

“My head aches,” she said. 

“You need to see a Maester. The best we’ve got right now is Sam. Would you let Sam examine you? You’re not well enough to travel anywhere else.” 

“Yes,” she said weakly. “How long have I been asleep?” She asked.

“You drifted away as we were talking to you. We were asking you what you remembered about the battle of King’s Landing.”

“I remember flying towards the Red Keep. That’s the last thing that I remember. I remember the sound of bells.”

_“Burn them all.”_ Dany heard a voice calling her. It was like a whisper, It sounded like it was beside her. She turned her head. There was no one there.

“Dany, what are you looking at?” Jon looked into the darkness. 

_“He doesn’t understand_ ,” Dany thought. 

_“How could he?_ ” The voice replied. Dany looked behind Jon, out into the dark room. But there was no one. 

“Show yourself!” Dany shouted into the air. She could see the confusion in Jon’s face, but she needed to know who was taunting her.

_“Burn them all. You are the blood of the dragon. The dragon does not concern themselves with the wants of sheep.”_

“Show yourself!” She shouted into the dark of her room. But the fiend would not show themselves. _She was a Queen. Who did they think they were?_ She would put a stop to this, she thought. Her heart drummed and she felt like she could hear it, and hear her blood, in her ears. 

_Burn._

_Them._

_All._

“Silence!” She screamed. 

“Dany, you need to lie down. I will have a servant bring you up something to eat, and I’ll ask Sam to bring you some dreamwine.” Jon said. The firelight danced on his face, but his countenance was still and somber. 

“That sounds good.” Dany said, and she watched as Jon walked out into the corridor. She watched as his shadow receded, and his shape no longer flickered and danced along the walls of her room. She lay back onto her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes searching the darkness of her room for the source of the voice. 

In the corner of her room, she could see a face. The face looked like her own, pale and fine, with eyes like amethyst. 

_Burn._

_Them._

_All._

“Shut up!” She shouted into the dark, and she heard a cold, cruel laughter as sharp as crackling ice answer back. 

“ _Burn them all_.” The voice hissed. It was almost like the voice was inside her head. 

“Fire purifies all,” the voice insisted. But she didn’t know what that meant. She didn’t want to. She would wait for Jon to return. She wouldn’t listen to the voice, _whatever it was_. Jon needed to know what she remembered about the battle. She wanted to help him. She wanted to remember. She lay now on her pillow and watched the flames dancing in the candle that sat at her bedside. The flames calmed her. 

***

King’s Landing

If you told her that every hair on her head was covered in a fine mist of ash, Arya would have believed it. Her blood ran hot and thick down her face, and matted in her hair, and she could smell it on her, like death. The smell followed her as she walked along the cobbled streets. Dazed she watched as people shambled through the devastated streets looking for their loved ones. The sounds of mourning echoed in the distance behind her, a chorus of sobbing, weeping and anguished screams. In a burned out shell of a house, she saw a small girl, crouched in a corner, her face frozen in fear. “ _Who was missing her? Who loved her? Children weren’t meant to die like this,”_ She thought. 

The once busy streets of King’s Landing were deathly still. The rows of shops, that had bustled with the activity of shopkeepers and smallfolk were barren and covered in thick layers of powdery ash and dust. There were clothes and trinkets and mounds of broken furniture piled all about the streets, the relics of life. “ _There is only one god, and his name is Death_ .” Syrio Forel told Arya this when she was only a girl. As she walked through the debris, and watched the wind swirl with smoke and ash she could only sigh. Her tears mixed in with the ash and blood covering her face. She saw mothers weeping in the streets. She saw a man bloodied, naked stumbling wordlessly through the debris with haunted eyes, looking for _something_ . She watched as the facades of buildings burned, buckled, crumbled and fell. The city was still burning. The Dragon Queen had won. Her chest ached from inhaling the debris, and her eyes stung both from the smoke, and from her tears. _She had chosen wrong._ She had left Sansa all alone. She had chosen vengeance over her family. 

In the distance Arya saw a white horse. Its mane was speckled with blood, and it’s white coat was dull and grey from the soot and ash that swirled in the wind. The horse had eyes the color of the bluest sky, just like Arya’s mother. She walked towards it. As the horse heard Arya’s footsteps approach, the mare shifted on her feet, and turned towards Arya, so that their eyes met.

Arya felt drawn to the horse, and she used every bit of her strength to make it to where the horse stood. She could almost touch her now. Arya began to walk forward. She had to get closer to her. Arya ignored the pain in her legs and hobbled towards the horse, with her hands outstretched. The horse looked at her, with its large blue eyes pointed straight towards her outstretched hand, and it’s ears moving in furtive circles. She reached out a hand to touch the mare, and let out a sigh as the white mare bent her down head down to receive the touch. 

“I won’t hurt you girl,” Arya whispered. 

The horse stilled beneath her hand, and she patted it softly. 

“We’ll stick together. I need to go home.” She petted the mare about her mane gently, and the horse lowered its head, tilting her long face towards Arya, to watch her with her quiet, clear blue eyes. Arya spoke softly, in almost a whisper as she lead the horse towards a half wall. She used the wall to prop herself up, and used what strength she had left to mount the horse, all the while speaking softly to it. She offered promises of safety. She offered promises of love and companionship. The horses breathing seemed to become calmer as she continued to talk to it. As she comforted the horse, she also comforted herself. She just kept telling herself that she was going home. She would make it back to Winterfell. She would make it back to Sansa. She had to. When she felt that she had a stable seat on the horse, she squeezed her thighs together and urged the horse towards a steady trot, setting her sights on Winterfell. 


	31. No One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya Stark heads North. She meets a familiar face.

**Chapter 31: No One**

* * *

The days passed without rain, and the fires continued to burn. Arya’s body felt sore as she held onto the white mare for support. She was exhausted. The land seemed to stretch on forever before her. A haunted landscape of fire, smoke and ash stretched out before the night wolf, and she rode slowly across it surveying the devastation with red rimmed eyes. Carefully the horse stepped along the scorched path, and Arya braced her back against the searing smoke filled winds. The land around her was barren and scorched. This was a land that had once been beautiful. 

A younger, more innocent Arya Stark had travelled this road with her father, as he went South the first time. She had curled her small body up in the grass underneath his cloak as they slept beneath a blanket of stars. There had been towns dotted with houses, and smallfolk fishing in the streams. The land that had once been verdant and green was now a bed of charcoal and ash. The air that had once been fresh, and cool and crisp was now thick with the smell of smoke, the smell of decay, and of fire and of burning. Arya’s heart thudded heavily in her chest as she lay her body flat against the white mare and the Inn at the Crossroads came into view. As she stared off into the distant blue sky the clouds of black smoke stood out against them in stark relief. She remembered the eyes of the blacksmith. She remembered the inky black hair and sad blue eyes that she had left behind in Winterfell. _“I could be your family.”_ The words that she had spoken to Gendry once, and still they echoed inside her head. He had left her then. She had closed up her heart in anger. But this time, she was the one to leave. 

She had wanted vengeance. She had gone out in search of it. But all that she got was fire. All that she heard as she stared into the black of the sky at night were the screams of the dying. All that she felt, as she remembered her flight from the capitol, was the heat, the searing pain, and the exhaustion. She had watched as the fire destroyed everything that it touched. She had seen the blood of her countrymen spilling into the streets. _Northmen_ . Northmen who had willingly followed the Dragon Queen into war. Northmen who had pledged themselves to fight alongside her brother, Jon Snow, and to pay a debt. They had gone all the way South to honor a debt to this _foriegn_ queen. She had, despite this recent change of events, been a great help to the North. Sansa would not admit this. She would be even more loathe to admit it now, now that she had turned out to be as mad as the Mad King. Arya knew within her heart that without the dragons, the fight against the Others would have been even more insurmountable. It was only because of the Dragon Queen, and only because she had brought her dragons North to help free them from the icy grip of death that these brave men had agreed to die in her service. They died in a place far from their homes. They had fled from the icy jaws of one death and into the gaping fiery mouth of another form of destruction. 

The roads were completely desolate. She did not see one other person as she journeyed towards the inn. The small folks hid in what was left of their homes. The small folks, she knew, only wanted it all to stop. They had been plagued by nothing but war ever since _King_ Joffrey had taken her Lord Father’s head. She hoped that the people of Westeros knew what had been given for even this slight moment of peace. The war was, effectively, over. _But at what cost?_ The fire had taken everything. Cersei no longer ruled. But the Queen who would take her place, had gone mad with vengeance. It was a vengeance Arya understood all too well. She wondered what she would have done, if she too had a dragon at her disposal. She could still see Drogon hovering above the city. She remembered the searing heat as the flames rained down from the sky. It had been like a punishment from the gods. The huge black dragon darted in and out of sight behind the cover of clouds, with the tiny white haired Queen on its back as the people below scurried like mice. The fire was indiscriminate. The Queen was blinded by rage. The fire and her rage ripped and tore through every living thing in their path. Arya had fled for her life. She had run through the ruined city covered in ash, sticky with her own blood, and breathing in the charred bones and ashes of the good people of King’s Landing. She fled as far as she could on foot before the pale horse appeared before her almost like a gift from the Stranger himself. She had served the stranger well. _Valar dohaeris._

After she fled through the city gates, she rode for days. She rode towards home, towards Sansa. Towards _Winterfell._ It was a long journey away. Presently, she was nearing the Inn at the Crossroads, and she hoped that she would be able to stop and rest. She hoped to find a familiar face, a bed, and a place to water her horse. 

As she plodded along slowly on the road to Winterfell, she watched the billows of smoke and ash rise against the wind as they travelled North with her. All along the road the burned bodies of the dead lay in crumpled, festering heaps as the crows picked at their flesh. Flocks of ravens shrieked and cawed, and pecked and gorged--the sound of it haunted her dreams. The smell of death was heavy in the air, and Arya longed for the cool air of the North. She longed for the snow. She longed to smell the pine needles, and the smoke of the hearth. She longed to be home. Vengeance had carried her far, but it could only carry her so far. Her vengeance had turned to ash, just as the city had done. _Vengeance belongs to the gods, not men_ , she thought as she neared the Inn. The sun was beginning to set over the white stone walls, and just as she reached the stable, she heard a lone wolf howl in the distance. 

She dismounted from her horse, and tied her up near the stables. She walked gingerly towards the inn, and opened the door. Inside, it was almost as desolate as the road had been. A few drunken men sat in the corner in a huddled mass. They were so deep in their cups that they had fallen asleep. Arya walked over towards the blazing fire in the hearth. She saw a familiar face coming towards her. _Hot Pie._

She probably looked half dead. “Arry!” He exclaimed. As he looked at her, she saw his eyes widen in horror.

He grabbed a platter and motioned for her to sit at one of the empty benches. 

“What happened to you?” He asked.

“Have you got a bed?” She said, and she pulled out a pouch filled fat with coins.

Hot Pie put his hand on top of hers protectively, “I told ya Arry... friends don’t pay.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave me some juicy comments, they are like fuel to keep me writing. Hope you enjoy!


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